


Catch

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [64]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crime, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Friendship, Healing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, References to Past Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:26:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam deals with personal fallout from the case in "The Grass is Greener". OC story with Sherlock/John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another OC-centered-ish story, although Sherlock and John have a much bigger role than in the last one. Again with the OC warning. The internet is a big place and there's lots of other things to do if you don't want to read this.
> 
> This is also a story about PTSD and emotional trauma from sexual assault, **so lots of trigger warnings!**

* * *

It was too loud, too busy. The press of people seemed unnatural, as if the crowds from the main streets in the heart of the city had suddenly been transported into the Yard. Everywhere, uniformed officers swam in a sea of black and white and yellow, amidst which the plainclothes officers stood out like small islands of distinctiveness, their clothing subdued but professional, sharp but neutral. Others in more relaxed clothing – denims and leathers and bright colours – were suspects in for questioning or witnesses being interviewed or the occasional undercover police officer who had been arrested as part of the guise.

People brushed past, heedless of the tight space, so that Sherlock felt himself constantly jostled, inadvertently touched. Muttered apologies were thrown in his general direction occasionally but more often he – _he!_ – was ignored.

Snatches of conversations flitted past. He tried to sort through them, to catch anything of significance. It seemed to be some kind of shift change; that was obvious from the fragments of predominantly personal conversation overheard as he and John and Sam tried to make their way down the narrow, too-bright corridor.

"… right, milk and bread– no, we have bread, check the freezer–"

"Pull the files on that Evans case and check with Charing Cross– hang on– no, that's your phone–"

"No, not today, we have that– I have another call, ring you right back–"

"Hmm, tonight around seven?" That was John. His voice was somehow louder against the background of orders and calls and conversations. He tried to focus on it, to block everything else out, but the feeling of someone else pushing past him and calling down the corridor for a sergeant distracted him. It was all too close, too claustrophobic.

A phone rang, an order was shouted out. Paramedics were running toward them now and Sherlock heard John and Sam's footsteps stop, felt a hand on his arm, pulling him toward the bland, neutral-coloured wall. Sherlock flared his nostrils, inhaling John's scent, giving himself a focal point. John's hand on his arm was a small spot of welcome warmth, a touch that wasn't unfamiliar, unasked for.

Sam was looking the one way up the corridor, then the other. Frowning. Trying to keep himself back from the constables hurrying past after the paramedics. Stiffer than normal. Uncomfortable.

"Make it eight," Sam said, throwing a glance in John's direction.

"Right. Sherlock, eight tonight."

He'd been volunteered for a pub night. Sherlock glowered; John ignored him. Sam gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. He didn't like the crowds, either. They needed to go. The ridiculous simple case Sherlock had been called in to solve had only taken him half an hour. It was going to take just as long to get out of the busy station. He itched. He needed to have a shower.

_Dull, dull, dull_ , he thought, picking up his pace again after the small crisis had passed. John's footsteps started up again behind him, then Sam's.

Why was life so unnecessarily _boring_?

John's phone rang and an approaching constable pulled out his phone, checking it before realising it was not his and repocketing it, all the while never losing focus on the sergeant who was speaking to him. John put a hand on Sherlock's arm whilst checking his text, silently urging him to let them pass. The detective growled low in his throat. He shouldn't be the one to move.

"… and C4 at the demolition site, so we don't want any kids breaking in before … "

Did this corridor never end?

Sherlock kept walking; John could catch up once he'd finished being sidetracked by his phone. He was texting someone, so it wasn't urgent – most likely Tricia, possibly some other former army mate. He hoped there wasn't some tedious get together to which John was being invited. He had plans of his own for them both that weekend – other than the newly arranged pub night. John was not on a Saturday shift that weekend and the weather forecast was calling for heavy rains. They would stay at home and enjoy themselves.

There was a set of footsteps missing – the lack of sound was jarring in the press of noise. Sherlock paused, turning back. John collided with him and cursed, looking up from his phone. Sherlock grabbed him instinctively to keep him standing, but focussed on Sam, who had stopped several paces back. A woman behind him grumbled at the upset and wove around him, shaking her head.

Sam didn't move.

He was sheet white and rigid, tendons jutting out against his neck, the backs of his hands. He was looking straight at Sherlock but the detective had the distinct impression that Sam wasn't seeing at him at all.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John muttered his voice low but catching in Sherlock's ears. "A little warning?"

"John," Sherlock said urgently. Sam clenched his teeth and sucked in a deep breath, holding himself rigidly, as if moving might make him break. John looked up at Sherlock and then seemed to realize that his husband was looking past him and glanced over his shoulder. In a swift, instinctive movement, he had pulled away from Sherlock, had pocketed his phone, and was taking two long strides towards Sam.

Sherlock followed him quickly, reaching out, but John snapped out an arm to stop him. Sam was taut, the lines of his neck standing out in stark contrast under his skin. His green eyes were fixed on the spot where Sherlock had been standing, wide, bright and terrified. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing there except a bare bit of corridor. He turned back quickly, eyes flashing over Sam's face.

"John," Sherlock said again, sudden suspicion flaring through him.

" _Don't_ touch him!" John said. "He's having a flashback."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, aghast. "But–" It was the twenty-ninth of September, he realized. Eight days before the five-year anniversary of The Bridge. Sam would be primed to be thinking about it already, even if only subconsciously.

"Hey, Holmes, you–" he heard Sally Donovan's voice coming from down the corridor and cursed to himself, eyes snapping in her direction. She'd already stopped, looking puzzled and concerned, a frown creasing her features as she tried to determine what was going on.

"Sally, get Lestrade and get this corridor sealed off, get everyone out of here!" John snapped, throwing a glare her way.

"What –" Donovan started to ask, taking a step toward them, and Sherlock growled. He was shocked to hear John making the same noise low in his chest, the sound edged with a dangerous impatience.

"Do it!" John ordered in a hard voice, one that Sherlock rarely heard. Donovan stared half a moment longer then nodded, the movement choppy and abrupt. She spun and jogged away, barking out instructions.

"No, back, back, get out now! You! At the other end, out of the corridor and shut the doors!"

"But–"

"Do it! Stop staring and go!"

There were mutters and shifting and footsteps stopping to change direction. There were more orders called out or passed along and questions that floated to them, sharp or half-formed. Sherlock ignored all of this, refocusing on Sam.

The Interpol agent jerked his head to his left and shuddered hard. Sherlock saw John reach out instinctively, only just managing to keep from making contact. His face was focussed, concerned, evaluating. Sherlock didn't move, keeping his gaze on Sam. Something tugged at the memories he hadn't deleted but had relegated to long-term storage and never accessed. Sam screwed his eyes shut and jerked his head back further, shuddering again, a tremulous sigh ghosting from his lips.

"No," Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding too loud as the sound around them drained away. "John."

"What?" John demanded, throwing Sherlock a glance over his shoulder.

"He's– the bridge. No, he's never remembered this before. He's not meant to remember it."

John froze, staring back at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"The flashback, he's on the Waterloo Bridge. The way he's holding himself, that moment there. Moriarty kissed his neck."

John's eyes locked with Sherlock's for a moment and there was a war between denial and hard acceptance, then he set his jaw and made himself nod.

"Right," he said. "He's there and so were you. We'll use that."

The doors to their right opened again suddenly and Lestrade was striding toward them wearing the angry expression he adopted when he was presented with an uncertain situation. He kept moving past them, not slowing his quick pace, and locked the doors at the other end of the hall. His footsteps were loud in the suddenly emptied corridor, ringing off the walls, the panelled ceiling.

The hollow clang as the locks snapped home immediately shifted the atmosphere – they were alone now. The isolation made the fluorescent lights too bright, seemed to bring John's controlled breathing into sharper counterpoint with Sam's ragged exhalations.

"What is it?" Lestrade hissed, coming up behind them. John held out a hand, keeping the DI back. He gestured to Sherlock to keep watch on Sam – a short flick of his wrist from his eyes to his patient – then turned to the DI.

"Flashback," the doctor replied shortly. "Get the hell out of here and call an ambulance. Clear the area where the paramedics will come up."

"Right," Lestrade said, after a pause. Sherlock ignored the Inspector, keeping his sharp gaze trained on Sam. The Interpol agent was still standing, but barely – Sherlock could recall how much effort it had taken five years ago for Sam to keep himself upright. And then Sam's left hand twitched and suddenly Sherlock understood – a sergeant who had walked past them had been saying something about C4.

The car on the bridge behind where Sherlock had been standing had been rigged with C4 explosive. Sam had told him, making two quick gestures with his left hand: an arc with his thumb and fingers for the C, holding up four fingers for the 4.

"Sherlock, he's going to collapse. You have to catch him."

Sherlock's eyes flashed to John and the doctor held his gaze resolutely.

"You couldn't do it last time." Sherlock parted his lips to retort but John beat him to it. "It's not a criticism, Sherlock! It's a fact! Do it! And tell him you've done it!"

Sherlock spun and reached out the moment he saw Sam's legs buckle under him. The weight made him stagger, but he kept himself upright, tightening his grip around Sam's torso. Sam jerked, trying to arch backwards with a hissing gasp, but Sherlock held fast, gritting his teeth. Sam was stronger than he'd anticipated. It was the memory acting; Sherlock wasn't supposed to have been there. Not right there.

"You didn't fall," Sherlock said. "I've got you."

Sam sucked in a deep breath, his head snapping up, his eyes focussed blankly over Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock managed a glance at John, who nodded at the floor. He lowered the shaking Interpol agent to the scuffed, cold industrial linoleum and Sam slumped forward, nearly folding in on himself. Sherlock caught him by the left shoulder, mindful that he'd injured his right that day, and held him up. Sam was shuddering harder now, his breath coming in jagged, hard-edged gasps, so that Sherlock was suddenly worried about seizures. He mouthed the word to John, who shook his head.

He trusted John on this. John had been there. Sherlock had sat through his share of flashbacks with John in the past seven years, but they had not been quite like this. They'd been quieter, almost eerily so.

"Talk," John mouthed and Sherlock felt a flash of memory himself, recalling the same instruction five years ago, John crouched in front of him in Sam's ransacked flat, urging Sherlock to play Moriarty's game.

Sherlock was crouching again now, the muscles in his thighs starting to protest the extra weight pressed against his body as he tried to keep Sam braced. Sam was slumped against him, unwilling or unable to hold any of his weight himself. He was still shaking almost violently now, making it difficult to support him.

Sherlock tried to deduce what Sam was remembering now, at what point in the day's events he was stuck. Was he recalling the fall? Was he recalling being in the river? Or had the fact that Sherlock had caught him changed the history being played out in his mind? Did he believe he hadn't fallen now? Perhaps he was going through the memories again from the beginning – but which beginning? The beginning of that day? Sherlock hoped not; there was too much there. The beginning of the events on the bridge?

He did not have enough information. Sam was providing none now – neither physical nor verbal. No motions, no words, only uneven, wavering gasps. Sherlock shifted, grimacing, and felt John move against him, pressing into his side. It gave him better balance and he nodded his thanks.

"Sam, it's Sherlock. You're safe. You're at the Yard."

He glanced at John for confirmation and the doctor nodded, but Sherlock hesitated. When this happened to John, he didn't talk, just sat with him and held his hand until his husband came back because John had said that was best for him.

"I don't know what to say," Sherlock hissed in a low voice, hating the admission but not wanting to waste time. They needed to draw Sam out of this as quickly as possible.

"Tell him Moriarty died. Tell him he lived. Tell him what year it is, tell him about Sandra. Give him facts."

Sherlock gave a single, curt nod and drew a deep breath.

"Moriarty died when I shot him. His body was recovered from the river less than two hours later. Veronique took a picture of his corpse and gave it to you. You had it saved on your phone but you deleted the image and threw the phone in the river two years ago. It's 2017. It's been five years. You survived the fall and recovered. You returned to your life. You married a nurse at St. Mary's named Sandra Casey in Edinburgh on the eighth of April of this year."

Down the hall, the door eased open and Sherlock heard a snatch of voices and phones and radio chatter – the earlier buzz now confined and restrained – before Lestrade shut it gently behind him. He strode over to them and crouched down next to John, eyes darting to Sam, then Sherlock, before settling on the doctor.

"Paramedics are here," he whispered. "What do you want me to do?"

"Keep them outside, bring in a blanket," John replied. "And get those people the hell away from the door. No crowds, no noise."

Lestrade nodded sharply and strode away. John turned back and gestured for Sherlock to keep talking.

"You returned to London three years ago as an Interpol liaison officer. You are here in the Yard today for a series of meetings with senior police officials. I'm uncertain as to why – you refused to tell me. You had concluded your meetings and were on your way home although you had arranged with John that we meet with you and Sandra at a pub later this evening. I suspect you mentioned this to John because he is more likely to agree to banal entertainment than myself."

At this, John's lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. Lestrade came back with an orange shock blanket and passed it off to the doctor.

"Anything else?" he asked, his voice low and measured.

"I'll let you know," John replied. Lestrade nodded and left. Sherlock watched John watching the DI go, waiting for the door to shut behind him. Then he turned back to Sam.

"Sam, it's John. I'm just going to put a blanket round your shoulders, all right?"

There was a corresponding twitch in the Interpol agent's shoulders and arms and Sherlock tensed, keeping them both upright. John hesitated, then moved away from Sherlock, who braced himself more firmly. The doctor wrapped the blanket carefully around Sam's shoulders and the younger man went taut again, before exhaling a hard breath that Sherlock felt against his right arm. John nodded.

"Good," he murmured. Sherlock felt it before John noted it – Sam pulled back a little, moving his own weight fractionally from Sherlock's support. But he was shaking too hard to make any real effort at holding himself up, nor was he fully back in the present, and the moment passed almost as soon as it had begun.

"What now?" Sherlock hissed.

"Keep talking," John whispered in return. "It's anchoring. We'll need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible but he needs to be back first. We can't move him if he doesn't know where he is. It will make things worse."

"So will being in a hospital!" Sherlock growled, hearing the harmonic bounced back at him in the empty space. "Where they will put him in a strange room, drug him and may restrain him, John? How do you suppose that will help?"

He felt Sam tense again, his head jerking, shudders still running down his spine to course through his limbs. John sighed through clenched teeth, a flash of self-directed anger shuttering across his features.

"Yeah, good point," he said, giving an irate nod.

"We will ask him," Sherlock replied. "Sam?"

He saw John start to protest but Sam spoke in a tight voice as if he were dragging the words from his own throat.

"Home," he managed. John's eyes were dark with displeasure but he kept his silence on the subject.

"Sam, do you know where you are?" John asked, the calmness of his voice belying the rigidity of his muscles, the watchfulness in his features. The younger man didn't reply and didn't move to nod or shake his head. Sherlock kept a careful evaluation on how much Sam was shaking – the severity had decreased. He remained oddly still despite the trembling.

John gestured for Sherlock to keep speaking and with a scowl, the detective did so. He outlined his recently completed case, ignoring John's rolled eyes. He ran through theories regarding the cases he knew Sam was currently investigating, pointing out that he could provide more relevant conclusions if he was given access to data. He was about to start a consideration of continuity errors in _Doctor Who_ and how they could be corrected when Sam tried to sit up.

Sherlock let him dislodge himself but kept a careful hold. With John's help, they got Sam leaning against the bland white wall. His green eyes roamed across the ceiling, flickered down, fixed past Sherlock and John's shoulders. John leaned forward in his crouch and examined the agent's pupils as best he could with neither a light nor physical contact.

"Sam, do you know where you are?" John repeated. Sam's eyes flickered to John and he looked confused. He let his gaze dart to Sherlock, searching the detective's face, then he refocused on John.

"The Yard," he said in a worn voice, slumping down a bit against the wall, pushing his right foot against Sherlock's left to brace himself, appearing not to notice he was doing so. His gaze drifted away again, blank for a moment. Then he shuddered hard and they both steadied him carefully, keeping him upright. Sam exhaled a rapid sigh then sucked in another breath, tilting his head back, closing his eyes.

"Do you know what year it is?" John asked.

"No," Sam sighed. "I don't know. 2017."

"Right," John asked, touching the back of Sherlock's hand briefly to keep him from speaking. Sherlock glowered but complied.

"Can you tell me your full name?"

"Samuel Carroll Waters."

John exchanged a dark look with Sherlock who blew a sigh between his lips. John's features pinched into a frown but he kept his voice light and steady when he spoke.

"No, Sam, that's not your name. That was an alias, remember? What's your real name?"

There was a slight hesitation and then Sam frowned, opening his green eyes and refocusing somewhat.

"Gabriel Mitchell." There was no inflection, no emotion, just a listless, factual answer.

Sherlock's nostrils flared slightly.

"No, Sam, give me your full name." Sherlock understood the information John was seeking. Sam had changed his middle name upon returning to England permanently, so that he could be called 'Sam' without any confusion. Sherlock had never understood why but had not enquired.

Sam closed his eyes and was silent a long moment. John made a gesture for Sherlock to wait and the detective held his tongue with displeasure.

"Gabriel Samuel Mitchell," Sam corrected flatly.

"Good," John sighed. "Do you know what happened?"

Sam shook his head, his green eyes sliding away from John's again, losing focus slightly.

"Sam," Sherlock said and Sam's eyes snapped back to him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

Sam blinked rapidly and glanced about again, appearing to fully realize where he was. He winced and shifted, pulling the blanket instinctively around his shoulders.

"Are you willing to go to the hospital?" John asked.

Sam shook his head, his movement vehement and certain.

"No. No. I want to go home."

"Are you sure?" John asked.

Sam fixed John with a fairly steady stare.

"Enough bloody hospitals," he said. "It's not as if I'm in danger of throwing myself from a bridge."

Sherlock's lips quirked despite John's disapproving look. Sam drew his legs up to his chest, folding on himself a bit, not enough to indicate he was going to collapse. He looked away, eyes focussed but expression blank. His hands were still shaking, curled into fists around the orange blanket.

"All right," John sighed. "Sherlock's going to tell Lestrade to clear the path downstairs and get us a car to take you home. Is that all right with you?"

Sam gave a brief nod, the movement almost distracted, then seemed to re-centre himself again.

"Yes," he answered.

John nodded at Sherlock who pushed himself to standing, ignoring the protesting twinges in his muscles at the sudden change after so long holding himself in a crouch. He kept a wince to himself and stepped back, giving John some room.

"I'm going to put my arm around your shoulders, under your left arm, okay?" John asked. "I want you to put your left arm around my shoulders, over my arm. Then I'm going to get you up. Is that all right?"

Sam grunted but leaned forward enough to allow John to brace him. He put his arm around John's shoulders as instructed, his expression carefully closed as he did so.

"On three: one, two, three."

When Sherlock was satisfied that Sam was on his feet and was unlikely to collapse again or lose consciousness, he moved away, expanding the distance between them with long strides, and went to fetch Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

John knew what the human mind could do to exert control over the body. He also knew what the body could do to devastate the efforts of the mind. He'd seen it countless times in Afghanistan – there was only so much a person could do before biology won out.

Sam made it to the car and managed to get seated in the back before he folded in on himself. John ordered Sherlock into the front – he would have preferred it be Sherlock sitting the back with Sam, but the Interpol agent needed a doctor right now, not just a friend. As it was, Sherlock only buckled up because Lestrade snapped at him to do so, but he slipped the chest strap under his shoulder so he could twist himself around and see into the back of the car.

Talking through his actions every step of the way, John managed to get Sam leaning forward, head between his knees. The younger man clasped his hands behind his neck, shaking again – this time from the adrenaline and the shock. Each time John had to touch him, he made sure he warned Sam and gave him several seconds to process his words before making any kind of contact. The only touch John could stand when he had flashbacks was Sherlock's – and he'd been shot, not held hostage and raped. He'd dealt with several soldiers who had been similarly abused. He had a fairly good idea of what they could and could not handle, but each person was different.

He tried to get Sam to focus on his breathing and Sherlock picked up the pattern John wanted Sam to follow so that the younger man had some sort of cue. He could tell Sam was trying, sucking in deep breaths through gritted teeth, but he was still breathing too quickly and John worried about hyperventilation.

With the lights flashing and sirens wailing, it took Lestrade half the time to get them to Sam and Sandra's flat than it normally would have. The DI met John's eyes in the rear-view mirror and the doctor just gave a curt nod before turning back to his patient.

"Let me get out and come round to help you," John said gently and waited for a sharp nod before he moved. Sherlock was already out and hovering behind John, waiting for some kind of direction.

"Need help?" Lestrade answered.

"No," John replied. The fewer people there, the better. John knew Sam would probably prefer it if the doctor himself weren't there but John wasn't about to abandon a patient in during a panic attack, especially not with Sherlock as the only other option for company at the moment.

Lestrade gave a brief nod and John talked Sam out, unsurprised to see the agent's cheeks streaked with tears, his skin still sheet white. Sherlock closed the car door for him and John let Sam lean against the vehicle for a moment. Around them, the street was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos at the Yard that had probably helped trigger the flashback.

"Can you tell Sherlock where your keys are and let him get them?" John asked. Sam nodded jerkily and John kept a hand on his upper left arm, steadying him against the shuddering.

"Right jacket pocket," Sam managed and Sherlock nodded. He stepped forward, waited for Sam to recognize the movement, then carefully extracted Sam's keys from his jacket. John nodded for Sherlock to go on ahead of them and the detective closed the space between them and the building with his long strides, unlocking the front door quickly. John moved more slowly with Sam, taking a lot of his weight, somewhat concerned the younger man was likely to collapse again. John was more than capable of hoisting Sam over his shoulders and carrying him but he doubted that would be welcome right now. He'd do it if necessary but didn't want to make things worse.

He managed to get Sam into the building and up the flight of stairs to his first-storey flat, which Sherlock already had unlocked. It was quiet inside, nearly silent except for the sound of Sam's rapid breathing and faint footsteps from the flat above. Outside, John could hear the distant purr of vehicles as they went by on the street but even that lessened when Sherlock shut the door behind them. The detective stood out of the way, giving John an expectant look. John bit his lip in a moment of indecision then nodded to himself.

"Blankets and pillows from the bedroom," he said. Sherlock obeyed without hesitation and John allowed himself a fraction of a moment to be relieved. Then he got Sam onto the couch, lying on his back, the orange blanket still drawn around his shoulders, his hands still clutching it like a lifeline.

"Put your feet up on the arm," he said gently. "I'm going to take your shoes off, is that all right?"

Sam shook his head without looking at John and toed his shoes off himself, kicking them aside. John sat back in a crouch, nudging the coffee table aside a bit. He kept himself slightly distanced from Sam, allowing the younger man to have some space. John knew the last thing he needed was to be touched any more than necessary or to feel like he was being crowded. At least here there were no jostling throngs, no constant noise.

"Can you sit up a bit?" John asked when Sherlock came in with a pillow and the duvet that had been stripped off the bed. Sam managed – barely – to do so enough for John to get the pillow behind his head. Sherlock spread the duvet over him as John made a quick note of how much Sam was still shaking. He was in a cold sweat and his face was pale.

John crouched down again.

"Sam, can you give me one of your arms? I need to take your pulse."

Sam shook his head again, exhaling hard.

"Can you let Sherlock do it?"

This got a jerky nod and John beckoned to Sherlock who hesitated, then crouched down. John stood and moved several steps back.

"He's just going to pull the blanket down enough for you to get your arm free," John said, giving Sherlock instructions as much as he was giving Sam details. "He's going to put his hand on your wrist but that's all. Only for half a minute."

Sherlock did as bidden, the rustling fabric almost masking the sound of Sam's still-jagged breaths. He moved his arm enough for the detective to wrap two fingers around his wrist lightly. The younger man turned his face toward the back of the couch and set his jaw; John saw fresh tears streak down his cheeks. He understood – he knew Sam's arms had been bound and that would have been obvious from the scars on his wrist even if he hadn't known. But this was less invasive than using the pulse in his neck.

He timed the count but almost needn't have bothered – Sherlock kept his fingers on Sam's wrist for precisely thirty seconds before letting go. John got the pulse rate from Sherlock and was unsurprised that it was still too high. Sam was still breathing too quickly as well.

"Sherlock's going to pull the blanket back up now," John said and Sherlock did, although Sam helped with that, nearly burying himself in it. The detective glanced over his shoulder with a questioning look.

"Can you see if you can find a bucket?" John asked.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later with a mop bucket in the linen closet and gave it to John, who set it close enough to the couch to grab it easily if need be. He leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees. Sherlock settled into a chair and they waited – John would have much preferred that Sam had agreed to go to the hospital, where they could have had him on oxygen and monitoring equipment but because this was a panic attack and not physical shock, he was not worried about medical complications.

He talked Sam's breathing down, giving the younger man something to concentrate on as well. John suspected as much as an A&E unit would have helped with medical equipment, being at home helped Sam's ability to reassert some control. And being in control was more important right now than having an oxygen mask and an IV drip. They'd have to get some weak liquids into him later, once the danger of him throwing up had passed.

Sam's breathing finally slowed enough to let John know the worst of the adrenaline spike had abated. He had Sherlock take Sam's pulse again, giving the agent more time to adjust before being touched since it was less urgent now, and was pleased that his heart rate had dropped. It was still too high but far better than it had been.

"Sam, I'm going to go to St. Mary's and get Sandra. Sherlock will stay here with you."

Sam gave a minute nod but Sherlock said:

"I'll go, John."

"No," John contradicted, "I need you to stay here."

Sherlock frowned at him but John had no intention of letting his husband go get Sandra. He was not especially well versed in tact and the immediate need for a doctor here had passed.

"I'm far less qualified to provide medical assistance than you are," Sherlock pointed out.

"If he throws up, give him the bucket." Sherlock rolled his eyes but John ignored him, pushing himself to his feet. He waited for another protest from his husband but Sherlock kept his silence.

"If you need anything, call me," John continued, heading for the door. "In the meantime, just stay with him. Take his pulse again in about ten minutes. Don't give him anything to eat or drink until I'm back, even if he asks for it."

Sherlock's features were pinched with displeasure but he nodded. John gave him a wan smile and left to catch a cab.

* * *

Sherlock spent a tense twenty-five minutes watching Sam, acutely aware that if the younger man should have another panic attack John was better suited for dealing it than he was. But he kept himself calm in order not to induce further distress and Sam's breathing slowed gradually back to normal at which point Sherlock felt confident that he no longer had to sit on the coffee table watching him. Sam had neither thrown up nor asked for anything to eat or drink. Instead, he curled up under the duvet, back to Sherlock, and the detective took the very obvious hint and had moved to sit in a chair away from the Interpol agent but close enough to continue observing him. Sam lay still and tense for seventeen minutes then fell into an exhausted sleep.

Sherlock simply sat and waited, his hands folded on his stomach. He ignored the part of his brain that supplied him with the knowledge that he was likely to have to speak to Sam about all of this.

He was the only other one who'd been there who was still alive.

He did not want to do this. It would be unpleasant for both of them and emotionally cumbersome. He felt he had more than his allotted share of that for the year, first with his mother's death then with the McKinney case that had nearly cost him both his marriage and his brother. He would have preferred that Sam not remember the incident until a more convenient time. He changed his mind on this; he would prefer that Sam not remember it at all. Sherlock firmly believed Sam already recalled far more than necessary. It displeased him that his friend's mind was able to sabotage him in this manner. This was an inappropriate way for a body to behave, as if its involuntary reactions should have so much control. It was tedious and baffling how often physiological responses could not be prevented.

Sherlock gave an inward sigh of relief when the door was unlocked and John came back in with Sandra. He had realized when John had left that they should have told Lestrade to wait. John's trip had taken fifty-seven minutes in total, including the time required to fetch Sandra from the hospital. The nurse met his eyes – she was obviously experiencing high levels of anxiety. She would not panic, however; her profession had trained that out of her and she was able to maintain some composure despite the personal nature of this incident. But her blue eyes were wider and brighter than normal, her cheeks were flushed and her expression drawn. She glanced at Sam's figure on the couch and then back at Sherlock who held a finger to his lips. Sandra nodded, licking her lips and tossing her handbag carelessly on the floor.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair as Sandra crossed the room. She stopped between the couch and the detective. Sherlock noted the protective motion, the defensive set of her body when she crossed her arms and held herself tall and tensed. She looked down at her husband and closed her eyes briefly, then jerked her head once toward the kitchen. Sherlock and John followed her there, where the hum from the refrigerator helped mask her quiet voice.

"John said you think he flashed back to the bridge."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his voice equally low. John shot him a look that was a mixture of concern and displeasure – he clearly didn't think Sherlock was lying but he apparently wished that were the case. "Given his stance and movements, it's likely."

Sandra pursed her lips and looked away, gazing blankly at the countertop behind him.

"Did he say anything about it?" she asked, meeting his eyes again.

"No," Sherlock replied. "He fell asleep fifteen minutes ago."

Sandra sighed and raised one hand to rub her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

"That's a mercy, at least," she murmured, half to herself. John put a hand on her arm lightly and she glanced back at him.

"Do you want us to stay?" he asked.

Sandra hesitated, then shook her head.

"No," she replied. Her expression and body language indicated that she was lying – she wanted them to stay, but she was choosing not to ask for Sam's sake. Sherlock was uncertain about this but John nodded and he accepted his husband's expertise in the matter. For the time being.

"Thank you for taking care of him," she said, turning back to Sherlock. "Both of you," she added, looking at John who gave a brief nod.

"Call us if you need anything at all," John said quietly.

"I will," she promised. John glanced at Sherlock, his expression a silent command for them to leave. Sherlock glowered in return; he did not think this was a good idea. But John did not back down, giving Sherlock his best captain's glare instead. It was one of the few expressions against which Sherlock had never won.

Sandra saw them out and they went down the stairs in silence. Only when they had left the building and were out of earshot did Sherlock stop and put a hand on John's arm, halting him as well.

"Are you sure this is wise?" he hissed. "That she should be alone with Sam right now?"

"Yes and no," John replied. "I'll call her this evening and make sure she's all right and make sure she rings her sister or Sam's. We're not abandoning her, Sherlock. Yeah, right now she could probably use someone else, but Sam can't. I mean, he won't be able to deal with it. And she's a nurse. She'll know if she has to get him to a hospital." He paused, searching Sherlock's face. "You can expect to help with this, you know. Sam trusts you. He'll need people he trusts right now."

Sherlock exhaled a sharp sigh.

"Yes. I know."

John held his gaze for a moment without moving, then nodded. Sherlock read more in his expression than John probably wanted him to, but he had no catalogue for what John's features held right now; there was too much. He'd never seen this look before and hoped not to see it again. He disliked complications with John. Things had been far too complicated between them recently. He did not want them to be so again.

"Let's go home," John said. Sherlock gave a curt nod and fell into step beside him again.

He felt a small flash of relief when John's hand curled lightly around his. Sherlock interlaced their fingers and John gave a rough, tight squeeze before loosening his grip but by no means letting go.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sounds – distant voices, sirens, cars, shouting. Speaking – that was closer. Music. Music? Gasping, laughter, smooth words, mocking tones, calm replies. Music in the background. Drown out by breathing, then not, then again._

Silence.

_Smells – the air, sea water, that salty tang, coming, going, hints only. Soap, shampoo, expensive cologne. His own for recognition. The other's for 'good taste'. Petrol from running engines. Concrete, tarmac. Salt water carried on the breeze._

Tea. Something baking.

_Sights –_ _Pale grey eyes, level, holding his gaze, nothing, no expression, no hints, no clues – no, right there, concern but muted. Careful movements, one slow step at a time. Stopping._ _Blue car. Red bus. Black coat. Black gun. Grey eyes. Grey sky. Grey bridge._

Sage green.

_Sensations – Pain. Cold. Desperation._

Warmth. Exhaustion. Safety.

Home.

Sam blinked, reached out, touched the colour in front of him. His fingers skimmed over soft upholstery. The couch, he was on the couch. He curled in on himself, cold. But he wasn't. The sensation was difficulty to identify – he was warm. Covered with something. He moved, curling his fingers over familiar fabric. The duvet? He could feel a pillow against his face. Not a throw pillow. Why was the couch the bed now?

John's voice, Sherlock covering him. He buried his face and inhaled deeply.

Tea. Something baking. Warmth.

No salt air. No petrol. No cologne.

But perfume. Vanilla.

Home. _Sandra_.

He blinked again.

_Sandra stuck in traffic, at work, recognising Sherlock on the new clip –_ No. _No,_ he told himself, staring at the conjunction of colours, sage green and navy blue.

Sandra at home, baking something, in the kitchen. He listened, heard her footsteps in the background. Her movements were soft, quiet. No music. There was no music – but then why did he remember music? If not from this, from what? Just the sound of her moving in their home. Her sounds. Normal sounds.

Safe.

He was safe.

_On the bridge._

No.

At home.

_It was cold._

He was warm.

_So much pain._

He moved. No pain. Not true – he ached. His back, his shoulders. But not real pain. The movement brought twinges only, not the searing agony it had then, forced to stand, to walk, to act normally when every step verged on collapse, made death seem preferable.

The sound, the hiss of fabric against fabric, his suit – why was he still wearing his suit? – against the couch, the duvet made the footsteps pause, then change direction. Sam stilled, tense, held his breath. Smelt vanilla and warmth and made himself relax.

"Sam." The voice was soft, gentle, coming from behind him. Not too close. But not far.

_Veronique had told him he always got himself into trouble. She was going to kill him. Or Sherlock. Or Moriarty._ Someone.

" _Sam." A voice in the darkness. Familiar. Something to hold onto. So he could let go._

No, the accent was wrong, the tone was wrong. It wasn't her. He closed his eyes and shuddered out a breath, curling his hands over the back of his neck.

"Sweetheart."

He felt a touch, the lightest of touches, fingertips on his hand. Without thinking, he wrapped his hand around hers, squeezing hard. There was a moment's hesitation then she tightened her grip around his. He knew that skin, that grasp.

Sandra.

Sam exhaled hard, closing his eyes. Without relinquishing his hold, he rolled onto his right side to face her, twinges in aching muscles all the way down his back, and clasped their entwined hands to his chest, folding himself over the contact.

"You're safe now, Sam," she said softly.

But it was there, all there, so close he could touch it. Behind closed eyelids, all the sights, smells, sounds, sensations. The cold. The pain. The sea in the breeze. Cologne. Music. Sirens. Sherlock's grey eyes.

Sam snapped his eyes open again, focusing hard on Sandra. She was crouched in front of him, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She'd been at work. She always wore her hair like that at work. But she wasn't in her scrubs; she was dressed in jeans and a fitted purple t-shirt. She was the first necklace he'd ever bought her, the silver chain and silver heart with the tiny emerald. The gemstone caught the light, gleaming.

He breathed out unsteadily, reaching for her other hand and curling his fingers around it. She pressed a palm against his cheek and his eyes fluttered closed, focusing on the sensation, but the images jumped back again. Sam opened his eyes again and managed to meet his wife's gaze instead, holding onto it, because it was real, it was right now, everything else was gone. Only memories.

Memories he hadn't had before.

"I can't–" he said. His voice wasn't his own. Hoarse. Raw.

"I know," Sandra replied.

He shook his head. Tried to dislodge the memories. He'd learned to manage everything else from that day. Not to let it have control. He could stop this. The cold, the pain, waiting for him right below the surface. The touch, the smells. Panic. Revulsion. Desperation.

He gasped and pressed his face into the pillow. The grey day leapt back into stark detail. He tried to make himself listen for the sounds of the flat. He heard only the sirens. The inexplicable music. The distant yelling. His own breathing, harsh and ragged. Mocking laughter. Calm words.

"Oh my god," he moaned, shaking his head. _Stop, make it stop._ He gritted his teeth, trying to fight it. He'd done this before, so many times. He didn't want to go back. He'd lived there – entire days spent in the span of those twelve hours. Sam pushed it away, tensing his whole body, trying to stop it.

But it was right there where it had never been before. Five years in between meant nothing – cold, pain, the gun against his neck, desperation, terror, trying to stay upright, the smell of salt in the air, wanting to fall, begging silently for it to end.

He had fallen; it hadn't ended. For months and months it hadn't ended. Then, gradually, it had.

_No more_. He couldn't do this. Not again. Not anymore.

"I have you, Sam," Sandra murmured. Her voice overlay the sounds on the bridge, drowning them for a moment. "You're safe. I have you."

Safe. He hadn't been safe before. Different city, different country, different name. Not this time. He was home. He wasn't alone. He was safe.

He reached for her and she wrapped her arms around him, warm, familiar, loving, and _safe_ , when he began to cry.

* * *

She didn't know how long it had been before Sam had been able to get up with her help and shuffle into their bedroom. She had helped him change, hating how tense he was when he took off his work clothing, how quickly he pulled on his pyjamas. She had hated the relief with which he took one of the strong sleeping pills he hadn't used since August and before that for eight months. She hated how he looked now – pale, drawn, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed by deep circles that looked like bruises, muscles taut, probably sore, exhausted, vulnerable. He looked smaller, somehow, like the man she'd known had been stripped away, leaving only a faded image behind.

Crawling into bed with him, wrapping him in her arms again, Sandra felt a flash of anger so strong it physically hurt. She bit her lip against a gasp and tried to keep herself from tensing. The last thing Sam needed was to feel her distress, but it was bright and raw; anger at the world, at James Moriarty, long dead, at Interpol, at Sherlock for calling him to that murder in August. Without that, would this have happened? Sandra drew in a deep breath. She knew Sherlock hadn't thought of it, but he should have. Then she remembered Sam saying once that he preferred it if other people didn't think of it all the time so that he didn't feel like he had to, either. That he didn't want to be treated like he might break at the slightest touch.

But there had to be times, didn't there? There had to be moments when Sam's past was taken into consideration. And then there had to be moments when people made mistakes.

That didn't make her feel better.

When he finally fell asleep, Sandra lay with him awhile then slowly disentangled herself and got up, rolling her shoulders, trying to ease some of the stiffness and tension from her muscles. She went into the living room but left the bedroom door open. She needed to be able to hear him even though he was unlikely to wake up for the next twelve hours.

She called his psychologist and made an emergency appointment for the following day then set her phone down on the coffee table, staring at it blankly. Sandra was suddenly aware of the silence in the flat, the utter stillness that was interrupted only by the normal background sounds: the hum from the fridge, the faint footsteps of their upstairs neighbour moving around her own flat, the purr of the traffic outside, the occasional creak as someone went up or down the stairs outside their door.

Part of her wanted Sam to go to the hospital. The nurse in her argued he'd be safer there, that he'd get the care he needed. Every other part of her screamed that this wasn't true. He wouldn't see it that way. He'd see himself locked up, confined, restrained. Not allowed to leave, not allowed to decide where he could or go when. Given sedatives or other drugs.

She couldn't stand the thought. She couldn't imagine being separated from him like that, either. Not now. It had been frightening enough on the endless cab ride home – she didn't want to consider being confined to visiting hours.

She remembered herself enough to call the hospital and have her shifts covered for the next two days, then sat back against the couch cushions again, her phone dark and silent on the coffee table. Sandra stared straight ahead vacantly, then closed her eyes and lowered her head into her hands. She bit her lip, trying to stifle herself so as not to disturb Sam.

The sound of her phone startled her back upright and she wiped her eyes hastily, clearing her throat. The tiny display showed John's name so she answered it, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Hi, John."

"Hi, Sandra," he said gently. He'd always had one of the kindest voices she'd ever heard. Even when he was exhausted in hospital with Sherlock, he'd had warmth and compassion in his voice. "How are you?"

Sandra swallowed hard then exhaled slowly, silently.

"I'm fine," she said. "Sam's sleeping now."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"You're not fine," John said.

"No," Sandra contradicted, "I am–"

"Sandra, you're not fine," John interjected calmly. "No one can be fine with this kind of thing."

"It doesn't matter," she insisted. "I'm a nurse. I can handle this."

"You're not a nurse, you're his wife. You're no more a nurse right now than I was a doctor when Sherlock was in the hospital. Is there someone I can call for you? Do you need me to come by again?"

"No, I'm all right–"

"You can't be on your own right now. You know that. If Sam's sleeping, he probably took sleep medication. You need to stay there for him, but you need to have someone there for you, too. I can come if there's no one else. But your sister, other friends?"

Sandra paused, biting her lower lip.

Joanna.

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to have her sister there. The desire was so sharp it burned in her lungs and she nodded even though John couldn't see her. She trusted her sister with her life. Joanna would come without question. She'd been wary of Sam's past initially but she knew him now. He was family. And for all their sisterly bickering, Sandra knew she could count on Joanna when she needed to.

"I'll ring my sister," she managed, angry at the tremor in her voice.

John hesitated again.

"I will," Sandra promised.

"Will you call me if she can't make it?"

Sandra sighed, closing her eyes, and nodded uselessly again.

"Yes," she replied.

"All right," John said, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

"I promise, John."

"Okay. Ring me tomorrow then. Let me know if you need anything. Even in the middle of the night."

"I will."

He rung off and she stared at her phone for a few minutes, trying to get her breathing to steady, hot tears tracing salty tracks down her cheeks. Then she opened Joanna's contact information and sent her a message.

_I need you to come over right now._

Joanna was there in less than half an hour.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam woke feeling odd – light and hollow. His mouth was dry and he licked his parched lips, wondering why he was dehydrated. His muscles felt slack and strangely tense at the same time, as though he'd been doing something demanding the day before. He didn't feel sore exactly, but wrung out.

Their bedroom was dark, the navy blue drapes that matched the duvet and linens were drawn over the windows. There was almost no light filtering in around the edges, so it was still early. He moved his eyes so he could just see the clock past Sandra's sleeping form. It was 4:57; the sun would not be up for another two hours.

He lay still, wondering why he felt so peculiar. He was stiff, as if he'd been sleeping in the same position too long. He was on his left side, knees drawn up somewhat, hands folded in front of his chest. Sandra was sleeping on her back, her blond hair a splash of contrasting lightness against the dark colours in the dimness, her face turned slightly away from him, her breathing deep and rhythmic. Her right arm was stretched toward him, her hand resting on his pillow palm up, as if she'd been touching him before falling asleep. Or in her sleep.

His eyes adjusted enough to make out the faintest gleam from his wedding ring, a simple gold band incised with a Celtic knot pattern. That had been Sandra's idea – she'd said it went well with the Scottish theme in their wedding. He'd agreed happily. He hadn't cared what the rings looked like. He would have worn anything she'd asked. He still would. He'd do anything for her – most days he was still stunned that she was his wife, that she came home to him, that she'd chosen him and not someone else. Sometimes, he was certain he was dreaming the whole thing.

Sam watched her sleeping and frowned slightly. He didn't want to move and wake her but he wasn't certain why. Normally she slept through him getting up and getting ready for work. She really only woke up for him if he woke her deliberately – which she generally did not mind – or if he was having particularly bad nightmares.

Sam's frown twitched and deepened. Something about nightmares tugged at his memory – had he had one? If so, it would explain the sleeping pill he must have taken. It was the only reason he'd feel so dehydrated and lethargic. But that would mean he'd have taken it yesterday evening and why would he have had a nightmare then?

_Noise. Sherlock. John. Salt water. Music. Cold. Grey._

_Oh_ , he thought vaguely, still watching Sandra, listening to her deep breathing. He remembered suddenly, a jumble of images, sounds, impressions. He'd had a flashback to the Waterloo Bridge the previous day at the Yard. Sam closed his eyes and the memories came back, but everything was confused, muddled. The order of the events made no sense and there were still blank spots so that the memories were jumpy and half formed. He did not remember actually falling and hoped he never would. He thought about the Welsh MP who had died falling from the Westminster Bridge in August and knew that recalling that would be intolerable.

But had he been frightened when that happened? Sam couldn't remember. But he could remember wanting to die. Had he been relieved when he'd tipped over the edge, Jim Moriarty's dead hand still caught in his hair? Had he been scared?

_Does it matter?_ he asked himself. He felt curiously detached from everything. The memories were right there, behind closed eyelids, and he could feel Moriarty's hand in his hair and the gun against his neck and the cold air almost as much as he could feel the cotton of the sheets and his pyjamas against his skin, the scratch of stubble against the pillowcase, the warmth of the air in the bedroom.

He watched Sandra sleeping, unconsciously matching his breathing to hers, feeling himself relax somewhat. He frowned again – he had a memory of Sherlock catching him in the moment before he fell but that could not be right. Sherlock hadn't been close enough. Sam had fallen – he still bore scars and aches in his joints from that – but he could _feel_ Sherlock's arms around his chest, feel his own weight being caught and held up.

Maybe it had happened yesterday. He remembered the day as a blur of panic – he had no idea why he'd been at the Yard nor why Sherlock and John had been there. Had that been coincidental? Did he have a case that overlapped with one of Sherlock's? He was mildly surprised that he didn't care – about any of it. He wondered if he should care, but found he couldn't be bothered.

He had no memory of going to bed the previous day, no memory of changing out of his suit into his pyjamas. He could recall Sandra being at home but not her actual arrival. He remembered her arms around him, holding him tightly as he cried. Sam touched his face and was surprised that it was wet again, tears tracking small salty trails down his cheeks. He didn't feel like he was crying. He brushed the droplets away with his fingertips then reached up and wrapped his right hand around Sandra's. She turned her head toward him but didn't wake. Her fingers tightened around his instinctively. They were warm, soft. He smiled slightly then let go and sat up carefully, not wanting to disturb her. Sandra stirred, her features pinching into a frown. Sam eased himself out of bed carefully and then waited until she relaxed again.

He padded silently from their room and stopped in the corridor; the door to the office and guest bedroom was closed. That meant someone was there. He stared at it a moment, wondering who their guest was, then decided it was probably Joanna. Sandra had friends she could call in an emergency, but she'd call her sister before any of them.

Sam wondered if she'd rung Marian to let his sister know what had happened. Or his mum. Somehow, the thought of having to tell either of them made him exhausted.

He realized with a jolt he'd have to call Veronique. She'd find out anyway and if she didn't hear it from him, she'd be upset. The idea didn't seem as tiring, though. He trusted her with his life, more than anyone except Sandra. When he'd been in the hospital, she had been the only person who was safe. The only person he could stand to have touch him at the worst of times, the only person he trusted to tell him the truth. She would want to know and he wanted her to know. He missed her suddenly and wondered what she was doing in Lyon, if she was awake and at work or at home and fast asleep. He'd call her later in the morning – it was too early.

Sam went into the bathroom and winced when he turned the light on, blinking in the harsh and sudden brightness. He reached for the glass next to the sink then stopped, momentarily startled by his appearance. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head – no, he hadn't had dark hair in five years, not since they'd shaved off in the hospital following the fall. He'd been unconscious. He'd been mostly unconscious for a long time.

He ran his hands through his lighter brown hair. This was his hair, not Sam Waters'. He frowned at himself – was there really a line? He was always surprised whenever he realized he never thought of himself as Gabriel anymore. Only his mother and sister called him that. He had his reasons for it.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him was the towel rack with its two dark brown towels contrasting against the pale yellow wall. Sandra had painted it when they'd moved in. He liked it – it reminded him of her. Light, sunny, warm. A long way from the dull grey he could picture now with too much ease. Grey sky, grey water, grey concrete, grey eyes.

Sam filled the glass with water and downed in one go. He refilled it and sat down on the edge of the tub, pushing the curtain out of the way. He sipped the water more slowly, feeling somewhat better for the hydration. He looked around the bathroom as if seeing it for the first time. The bath towels and flannels were dark brown, the hand towels were white for contrast. Sandra had hung a small painting she'd bought at a market above the towel rack. It was of a small red bird on a brown tree branch against a pale blue sky. Her bathrobe, a light blue terrycloth, hung from a hook on the back of the door. She'd bought a ceramic soap dish with tiny gold leaves painted on it and a matching toothbrush holder. Part of the counter next to the sink was taken up by her creams and make up. There was an extra toothbrush in the holder, probably Joanna's. The shower curtain matched the towels: white with dark brown leaves and vines.

He was faintly amazed that this was his life, that he lived in this flat with an astonishing woman who had turned it into a proper home. That he felt safe here, that he went through most of his days not really thinking about what had happened to him five years ago, instead considering the work he had to do, the small daily chores that needed to be completed, the shopping that needed to be done. That he even had a life at all.

By rights he should have died. He almost had. It had been years before he'd felt himself again, because it had been years before Interpol had let him _be_ himself again – not until he'd put his foot down and started demanding it.

He put the now empty cup aside and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, once again vaguely surprised to feel tears against his skin. He wiped them again and let his hands fall to rest between his knees, fingers interlaced.

A small sound in the corridor made him look up and Sandra was standing in the doorway a moment later, blinking sleep from her features, watching him with concern. He tried to give her a smile but the expression felt tight and his muscles felt tired. She crouched in front of him, searching his face, resting her hands very lightly on his knees. Sam moved his own hands to cover hers.

She didn't ask if he was all right and he was grateful. He wasn't sure what to say. He probably wasn't. He probably should have been feeling something more than the vague numbness and detachment. It was probably not a good sign. But it was difficult to be bothered by that.

"Let me make you some breakfast," she said gently. "You haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."

Sam nodded and she rose then bent down to press a kiss against his forehead. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of her warm lips on his skin. He wondered again if he were dreaming, but he could never remember his dreams when he took his strongest sleeping pills. That was why he had them.

Sandra straightened again but instead of letting her move away, Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her stomach. He felt her hesitate a moment, then wind one arm around his shoulders and lace her other hand into his hair. He inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent, and just stayed there holding her for awhile.


	5. Chapter 5

Veronique frowned at the call display on her office phone when it rang; a London number, not one which she recognized. She sat down smoothly in her leather desk chair and mentally switched languages as she picked up the receiver.

"St. Jean," she said crisply, moving her coffee cup aside so as not to knock it over.

"Veronique?" Female, late twenties or early thirties, definitely English – she was having troubles with the accents and emphasized syllables of the agent's first name. The speaker was vaguely familiar but not immediately identifiable. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a shiver of warning down her spine; this was someone who knew her personally.

The name clicked in milliseconds before the other woman spoke again.

"It's Sandra Mitchell, Sam's wife."

Veronique flared her nostrils in a quick and silent inhale before sitting up straighter, her eyes narrowing even more into an unseeing glare.

"Sandra, yes, _allo_. What can I do for you?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line and the muffled shifting of the phone against Sandra's ear. Veronique listened hard to the sounds in the background – somewhere busy, lots of people. For a moment, Veronique thought the noise might be in a hospital, but it lacked the sharper overtones and the sense of urgency. It was a murmur only, the sound of a passing crowd on a pavement.

"It's Sam," Sandra said. Another shiver trickled down her back, not in warning this time but in cold apprehension. She stilled herself deliberately and forced her muscles to relax with a slow inhalation and exhalation.

" _Ques_ –" she started, then caught herself with an inward curse and switched back to English. "What happened?"

There was another pause, an uncertain hesitation.

"He had a serious flashback yesterday," Sandra replied and Veronique felt her jaw tighten. "Things he's never remembered before, until now."

Veronique closed her eyes, feeling suddenly tired, older. _Five years_ , she thought. Five years Sam had been dealing with his memories, making progress. Being permanently reassigned to London – being allowed to live his life as himself again, not as an alias – had been the best thing for him. That had been nearly three years ago now. Within a month of returning home, he'd made more progress than he had in the entire two years prior to that. Most of that was because of Sandra. Veronique often had her suspicions about Sherlock's purported genius but she would admit the man was capable of reading people. Even when concussed, apparently. And while most of Sam's close friends would have baulked at introducing him to a woman who was interested in him, Sherlock had disregarded all common sense in the matter and simply done it.

And it had worked. Veronique had no trouble identifying Sandra's appearance in Sam's life as a distinct turning point. Being at the wedding and seeing him there, grinning as he danced with his new wife, had made her think of the broken and terrified man in the hospital in Nice, unable to handle more than a single doctor and nurse at a time. She'd been immensely proud of him – this was the man she'd held on for, the one that had nearly been buried by his experiences.

And now this.

"Can you tell me what 'appened?" Veronique asked.

"I'm not entirely sure," Sandra admitted and Veronique could hear the hard edge in her voice that came from trying to hold it steady. "It was yesterday. He was– he was at the Yard – Scotland Yard, I mean," she clarified, as if Veronique didn't know, "But I'm not sure what triggered it. He's um– he was with Sherlock and John and they managed to get him home. I was at work. But Sherlock thinks–"

She cut herself off, exhaling a shaky sigh and there was a moment of silence in which Veronique could almost hear her trying to regroup herself.

"Sherlock thinks he had a flashback to Waterloo Bridge." The words were delivered in a rush and Veronique didn't miss the tremor in Sandra's voice.

She cursed inwardly to herself, employing every French expletive she could think of and some of the English ones she knew, too. She was vaguely aware of her free hand curling into a fist on her desk, the other one tightening on the phone's receiver.

"He was asleep when I got home from work – John came and got me. He was up for awhile but he– he took a sleeping pill and was out all night. He hasn't said much about it today, not yet."

"Where is 'e right now?" Veronique asked, making sure to keep her voice level and fairly neutral – not pleasant, but light enough so as not to sound accusatory or demanding.

"With Doctor Telle."

Veronique cast a quick glance at the clock on her computer monitor; it was just after 9h30. She was impressed Sam's psychologist had agreed to see him at short notice on a Saturday. And she was glad to hear there'd been no talk of Sam being admitted to the hospital. Five years ago it had been necessary for his recovery, but she knew how much he'd hated it.

She surmised that Sandra had left Telle's office to call Veronique, finding some privacy in anonymity among the bustle and flow of a crowded London street.

"Sam doesn't know you're calling, does 'e?" she asked.

There was another pause accompanied by a sigh.

"No," Sandra admitted. "But I know he'd want you to know. Can – can you come to London, do you think?"

Veronique quelled the impulse to be angry by the suggestion that she might not be able to do so. The work spread out on her desk had ceased to be important. It could wait. Someone else could do it.

"I'm on my way right now," Veronique said, cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder, pulling her handbag from her bottom desk drawer. "I will send you my flight information when I arrive at the airport and I will call when I've landed at Heathrow."

"All right," Sandra agreed and Veronique heard the fatigue and uncertainty in her voice. "We'll be back at our flat by then. Do you– of course you know where it is, you've been there."

Veronique nodded to herself.

"Yes," she replied. "I will see you soon. Take care of him."

"I will," Sandra said, a hard, determined note in her voice. Veronique bid her good-bye, rung off, returned the receiver to the cradle with a clatter and reached for her mobile before it really hit her. She stopped, bowing her head into her hands and raking her fingers through her dark hair.

" _Merde, merde, merde!_ " she cursed to herself, her fingers tightening against her scalp. Veronique drew in a deep breath and held it, feeling a tremor pass through her hands and flash down her spine. She dropped her hands from her hair and pressed her palms together, her index fingers resting against her pursed lips.

There had been too many days like this before, too many times when the memories had sprung up unexpectedly and blind-sided him. Too many times when his slow climb out of the darkness had been halted or set back. But she'd thought those days were over.

She didn't want him to go through it again, not now, not ever.

But he was and she would be there. Veronique grabbed her handbag and her phone and pushed herself to her feet. She tossed the bag over her left shoulder and dropped her phone inside, automatically pulling out a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She lit one as she stalked down the line of cubicles, inhaling sharply to force the cigarette catch and start to burn.

"Agent St. Jean!" someone snapped at her. "You know you can't do that in here!"

Veronique pulled the cigarette from her lips and glared at the junior agent who was giving her an affronted look in return. She didn't stop as she strode toward him, blowing out the smoke in an angry puff.

"That's why I'm leaving," she snarled. "Make yourself useful and find Agent Hebert. Tell him I'll be in London indefinitely."

The junior agent started to respond to the order with a question but Veronique ignored him and strode away, her heels clicking sharply against the tiling. She took another drag on her cigarette as she hit the lift button on the lobby and felt a flash of irritation that overlaid the anxiety she felt about Sam. She'd have to call François Hebert herself – she couldn't trust that imbecilic junior agent to do anything properly. The quality of people they were hiring these days – it was appalling! She hit the lift button again and glared at the floor indicator, tapping her foot impatiently and puffing vehemently on her cigarette.

* * *

Sam lay on the couch, curled on his right side, his cheek pressed against one of the throw pillows. His right arm was buried beneath the pillow, propped between it and the arm of the couch, and his left hand was fisted into the afghan that Sandra had draped over him at some point. He was staring blankly at the telly, ostensibly watching some documentary about fish. At least, it had been about fish. Now it seemed to be a show about houses. He wondered absently when it had switched and if there had been anything in between. He missed the fish – there was something calming about watching the motion and the colours and not having to listen to excited real estate agents yammer on about cottages and properties and amenities. He supposed he could change the channel but he couldn't see the remote and the thought of lifting his head to look for it seemed too much bother. He watched vacantly as some young couple was shown around a tiny cottage.

_Why would they want to live there?_ he wondered. _Why leave London?_ He had no idea if they were even from London. But he still didn't understand the desire. He'd never wanted to leave. But he'd fallen off a bloody bridge and they'd made him go. It had taken two years before they'd let him come home.

He sighed and rubbed his face absently with his left hand before pulling the blanket up further so it covered his shoulders. There was an empty glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, not quite blocking his view.

After his appointment with Doctor Telle, Sandra had made him something to eat, some tea, and ensured he drank some water. He remembered eating but he couldn't remember what he'd eaten. That made him feel guilty – Sandra was a superb cook and he usually loved everything she made. Today, he couldn't remember anything about it: not the taste, not the texture, not the temperature. All he knew was that he'd eaten something. He wasn't even sure he felt better for it. He wasn't sure he felt anything at all.

The meeting had felt longer than normal. He recalled telling Telle everything he could remember, but he was still fuzzy on many of the details and he knew the timing was rubbish. Most of it made no sense; it wasn't a structured narrative but rather a mess of images and impressions.

He had just wanted to go home. Sandra had been waiting for him when he'd finally finished after what seemed like an eternity. She'd brought him back to their flat and he'd been grateful. He'd wanted to do something – help out with chores, talk to her – but these desires seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else and he was only hearing them recounted, not actually experiencing them. He felt like he was floating, like he wasn't quite all there, but he wasn't sure where the rest of him was.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the bridge and felt the cold and heard the inexplicable music. So he tried to keep his eyes open. The images on the telly helped keep everything else at bay so he stared at it without really caring what he was seeing.

The buzzer to their flat sounded and Sam heard Sandra's footsteps heading for the door. Her hand brushed over his shoulder on the way by and he managed to move his head and give her an unconvincing smile. She didn't call down over the intercom to see who it was, so it was someone she was expecting. Sam felt a flash of apprehension – he wasn't in the mood for dealing with anyone.

_Maybe she ordered delivery_ , he thought, even though Sandra rarely did. She unlocked the door to their flat and a moment later, Sam heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. His features twitched into a frown; the sound was familiar. He drew in a deep breath to let out a sigh, then froze.

He knew that smell.

He sat up fast, ignoring the twinge of dizziness as he did so, the afghan falling aside unheeded as he twisted around on the couch. Veronique was standing just on the other side of the threshold, wrapped in a light weight black trench coat against the autumn chill. She raised her eyebrows at him, her dark brown eyes bright and questioning.

Sam pushed himself to his feet without thinking and crossed the flat as she stepped inside and opened her arms, catching him in a tight hug. A rush of relief swept through him. Sandra must have called her, and astonishment replaced the relief momentarily – how did she know him so well that she knew precisely whom he needed to see right now?

Sam closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scents of Veronique's perfume – the only kind she ever wore, one of her family's best products – and her cigarettes. It was an odd mixture but one he'd always associated with safety. The sensation of being safe now made him feel weak and Veronique's arms tightened around him in response.

"Come sit down," she said and it was more of a command than a suggestion. Sam just nodded, catching Sandra's eye as he pulled away from Veronique. She looked somewhat hesitant. It was an expression he was used to seeing in Veronique's presence; she made everyone uneasy. Almost everyone. He hadn't felt intimidated by her in almost fifteen years.

He sat down on the couch again, grateful to be off his feet. Sandra offered to take Veronique's coat and handbag and the agent handed them over with a genuine smile of thanks. Veronique liked Sandra, Sam knew, even if she made Sandra nervous.

"I'm going to go out for a bit and give you two a chance to talk," Sandra said, coming round the couch, her jacket draped over her arm. She couched down slightly, searching his face, checking to see if this was all right. Sam cupped her face in his hands and pulled her into a kiss. He could feel the surprise course through her. She hadn't been expecting that reaction. He hadn't felt anything so strongly that day.

"Thank you," he whispered when they pulled apart, resting his forehead against hers. "I love you."

The barest of smiles tugged at her lips.

"I love you, too, Sam," she replied and he kissed her again, lightly. "I'll be back in a little while."

He nodded and released her, feeling a pang of mild regret at having to let her go. She ran a hand through his hair as she circled the couch. He watched her leave, then turned back to Veronique, who had taken off her high heels and tucked them neatly under the coffee table. He realized he should offer her something to drink or eat – she must have just come in from France. She had no bags with her other than her hand bag. He wondered if she even had a place to stay yet. He would offer the guest room and she'd decline. She was not a house guest type of woman.

She stood and picked up his empty glass from the table.

"I'm going to make coffee," she said, switching to French. Sam nodded, leaning back against the couch cushions, feeling the rush of emotion dissipate and numbness creep back in.

"I think there's scones," he said, speaking in English because it was easier. He remembered Sandra baking the day before but he did not remember what she'd been making.

"Scones," Veronique muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear and he felt his lips twitch. He curled himself up on the couch again, pulling the blanket back over him, leaning his head back to rest against the cushions behind him. Veronique came back with another glass of water for him, then disappeared back into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a cup of coffee for herself and a plate with a few scones on it. She put both of these on the coffee table and shut off the telly before settling herself on the other end of the couch and fixing her dark brown eyes on him.

"Tell me what happened," she ordered. Sam closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled a deep sigh. He opened his eyes again, gazing at the ceiling, and shook his head slightly.

"I don't really remember. It's all mixed up. Just images and sounds. It wasn't– it doesn't make a lot of sense."

She was silent for a moment and he looked over, turning his head just enough to see her. Her brown eyes were narrowed.

"Don't lie to me," she said. Sam raised his head, surprised.

"I'm not–"

"Yes, you are," she interjected, her tone curt but calm. "I know that look, Sam. Stop lying to yourself, too. You remember more than you're admitting to."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation flaring inside of him.

"Maybe I don't want to remember," he snapped.

"Of course you don't," she replied reasonably. "But you do nonetheless. Are you going to go through it all again, fighting yourself every step of the way? Where will that get you, Sam? In the end, you'll remember it anyway. What good will come out of denying it?"

He stared at her then looked away abruptly, closing his hands into fists when he felt them start to shake. Sam shook his head, setting his jaw. He refused to meet her eyes, staring instead at the pattern on the blanket covering his legs.

"Five years, Veronique," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, Sam, I know," she said gently.

"Why now?" he demanded, turning his head to meet her eyes again. "Why right now?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, not unkindly. "Last year, this year, next year. Does the timing really matter?"

He exhaled hard again and shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands. He could feel a familiar tightness in his chest, a prickling burning in his eyes.

"No," he admitted, angry at the hint of unsteadiness in his voice.

"Tell me what you remember," Veronique said softly. He set his jaw and raised his head, staring straight ahead of him toward the television's blank screen. He reached out with his left hand and felt her fingers curl around his as he began to talk.


	6. Chapter 6

John reflected that after meeting Sherlock there were a lot of things that happened to him that he would have never even imagined before the tall, lanky genius had thrown his whole life into a wonderful disarray.

He had never imagined being kidnapped and vaguely threatened by a shadowy government agent – and then later having that same shadowy government agent end up as his brother-in-law. He had never imagined fighting an assassin in a lecture hall with a recording in the background educating him about the solar system. He had never imagined being held prisoner by the Chinese mafia, confused for Sherlock himself. He _had_ imagined having a bomb strapped to his chest, but that had been overseas. He hadn't pictured that sort of thing happening in London, particularly not in a public pool at midnight.

Nor had imagined he'd ever be able to say that he had a holiday villa on the Mediterranean in southern France. He had never imagined he'd say he sort of worked for the police. He had never imagined that, when introducing his spouse, he'd say "this is my husband…"

He'd certainly never imagined he'd ever look over his shoulder and say:

"There's a very irate Frenchwoman at our door."

He heard an answering huff from the direction of the bedroom – just another bit of oddness to add the ever-growing list. Anyone else would have been confused or even worried. Sherlock was only vaguely irritated. John turned back to Veronique and raised his eyebrows at her. She shot him a glare in return.

"You can't smoke that in here," he said, gesturing to the cigarette she'd just fished out of the pack. She stared at him a moment, her eyes narrowed. John stared back levelly – after years in the army, she didn't frighten him. Awed him, yes, but he didn't have to let that show. She was certainly a gorgeous and imposing woman, all pale skin and dark hair, but that only reminded him of Sherlock. Her eyes were dark though. Dark and bright.

"You can yell at him all you want – I can't stop you. But you can't smoke in here."

She put the cigarette away and John felt an inward flash of relief. Someone smoking in the flat wouldn't do wonders for Sherlock's will power. He was managing with quitting again but John knew there were some days where he was just barely getting through the cravings. The doctor kept him in nicotine patches but he'd started finding sorry pens around the house with their ends practically chewed through. Even that was better than cigarettes even if they probably weren't fantastic for the detective's teeth.

"Come in," John said, stepping back. Veronique held her ground for half a second more, then strode into their flat, all confidence and angry grace. She glanced around briefly and John wondered what she saw in those few seconds. He'd seen Sherlock do the same – and Sam and Lestrade and other members of the Met. He knew Sherlock probably took away more information than anyone else, but John suspected Veronique came close.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked, because he thought it might annoy her. The flare of her nostrils told him he was right and John felt an absurd flash of triumph. He knew it was a bit childish but it was kind of fun nonetheless. If she was going to come into his home and discomfit him, he could at least return the favour a little bit.

But she wasn't here for him.

"Coffee, if you 'ave it," she replied in a smoothly accented voice, betraying nothing but impatience and self-assurance.

"I can make some," John replied levelly.

She gave a curt nod, then rounded her gaze on Sherlock when he emerged from the bedroom. John repressed a roll of his eyes – because he _was_ on Sherlock's side here, even if he thought the dressing down Veronique was about to give him was warranted. The detective was barefoot, wearing his green silk pyjamas, his dark blue dressing gown trailing out behind him. This meant he'd changed because, until a few minutes ago, he'd been fully dressed.

John apparently wasn't the only one out to unbalance Veronique St. Jean. He wondered if either of them should even have bothered trying. Her dark brown eyes raked over Sherlock coolly, noting what he was wearing but seeming unperturbed by it.

"Agent St. Jean," Sherlock said in a cool, smooth voice that dripped English upper class disdain. "Always a pleasure."

Veronique folded her arms over her stomach and regarded him studiously for a moment, as if studying a mildly interesting painting, then launched into a clipped and angry tirade in French.

John retreated quickly to the relative safety of the kitchen. The conversation obviously wasn't meant for him – the fact that it was in French was enough to keep him out of it. Sherlock responded to Veronique's diatribe in French and John tried not to shudder when he heard the detective's normally deep voice drop another notch and take on a rumble, a voice John normally only ever heard in the bedroom.

If Sam had flashed back to the incident on the bridge as Sherlock suspected, it probably had something to do with seeing how Brace had been murdered. John had been less than impressed at Sherlock's poor decision making skills in calling Sam to that scene but he also understood Sherlock's state of mind at the time. He hadn't been thinking straight. For anyone else, that was a reasonable excuse – and given what he'd gone through with losing his mother and then almost losing Mycroft, it was nearly defensible. But most people held Sherlock to a higher standard. John knew he was guilty of this, too, and of forgetting that his husband was still human beneath the cool exterior and the massive intellect.

It had been a big mistake but John believed if Sherlock had been in a good frame of mind, he never would have made it. He didn't think for a moment Sherlock wished Sam any ill.

While the coffee was percolating, John leaned against the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. He chose his position very carefully. Sherlock and Veronique were standing in the same places they had been, facing off against each other. Sherlock had his arms crossed and his expression was cold, shut down. Veronique had her hands on her hips and her features were blazing and angry. John leaned against the side of the door closest to Sherlock, angling himself slightly to look at Veronique. She'd understand the body language – although she clearly dismissed him after a brief glance.

They were both speaking far too rapidly, and overlapping with one another, angry voices mingling. He heard Sam's name frequently, of course, and picked up the odd word here and there with his school boy French.

Unconsciously, John found himself keeping score. He couldn't use what they were saying to do so, but he could use the small cues from body language: shifts in stance, flashes of irritation or anger in their eyes, nostrils flaring, lips pursing. They weren't exactly yelling, but they were close.

And by the looks of it, Veronique was winning. She said something sharply, pointing at Sherlock, and the detective flared his nostrils, an offended look flickering over his features. If John had noted it then she had, too. He was right; Veronique gave a short, harsh laugh and said something else. John saw Sherlock stiffen. Whatever she'd said had made him truly angry – but John detected a hint of uncertainty there. Sherlock was worried that Veronique was right about him. He snapped at her in return and she huffed quietly, her dark eyes darting away for a moment before flashing back to him.

_Point for Sherlock_ , John thought.

She rattled off a reply and John was pretty sure he picked up a couple of French curses in there. Sherlock's lips twitched, pulling back into the beginnings of a snarl, then he made his features relax again. When Veronique drew a breath, John interjected:

"Coffee?"

Two pairs of eyes, one pale, one dark, slid to him in surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there. John held Veronique's gaze steadily and she glared at him.

" _Non_ ," she replied, even though she'd requested it, and he couldn't help but be startled. If she were English she would have said yes because it was the polite thing to do. He reminded himself that she wasn't, and that she was probably not at all concerned with niceties at the moment.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his voice almost a purr. John glanced at him and nodded, then pushed himself away from the door. It seemed he'd derailed the conversation somewhat, because when Veronique started speaking again, her voice was lower and quieter but by no means any less angry.

John fixed Sherlock a cup of coffee and shook his head.

_Just as well women aren't Sherlock's area_ , he thought. _Because if they were, the two of them would have set fire to the whole of Europe by now._

The thought made him smile wryly as he returned to the living room and gave the mug to Sherlock. The detective took it with a brief flicker of thanks in his grey eyes, then returned his attention to Veronique, sipping the hot liquid as he listened to her. At one point, he lowered the mug and interrupted her with something that sounded very much like "Oh, come now!" in tone.

She was still winning, but John thought Sherlock had closed the distance.

She said something else, gesturing at him with an open palm, then shook her head irately. Sherlock growled a response and she stared at him before looking away and snorting softly. She gestured at him again, then pointed at the door. Sherlock glared, nostrils flaring gently, but gave a curt nod.

_And match point_ , John thought. Whatever had happened, she'd just won the conversation. They both stared stiffly at each other for a long moment, then Veronique gave another sharp nod.

"See that you do," she said in heavily accented English. She turned and gave John a smooth, cool nod of acknowledgement. John returned it with equanimity. He was never sure what to think of her – it was clear she loved Sam but she was a genuinely difficult person to understand or know.

_So not at all like Sherlock_ , John thought with an inward grin that he kept from his features altogether. He found himself questioning the company Sam kept – until he realized he could do the same for himself.

"Good-bye, Doctor Watson," she said.

"Take care of yourself," John replied smoothly. He followed her across the room, opened the door solicitously for her, then saw her down the stairs. He could tell this puzzled her somewhat as she tried to figure out if he was being polite or being pointed. He was pretty sure he was being a little bit of both.

He went back upstairs to see Sherlock dumping the remainder of his coffee down the sink. The detective stalked back into the living room in a huff as John locked the door to their flat. Sherlock moved around the flat, picking up books and nick-knacks and framed photos, fiddling with them before setting them back down, his movements abrupt and fidgety. He raked his hands through his hair, pressed his palms together and tapped his fingers against one another and drummed the tip of his index finger against his lips. John watched him calmly as he paced the living room, tugging his lower lip between his teeth. He smiled when Sherlock flopped onto the couch, his back to the room, his long legs curled up. It was his second favourite sulking pose.

John stayed still and quiet for a minute, then moved silently across the room and flopped down on top of Sherlock. He felt Sherlock stiffen, the irritation flowing out of him, replaced by surprise. He didn't move, but John saw his eyes flicker to the side briefly, watching the doctor carefully.

"Piss off, John, you're too heavy," Sherlock muttered, refocusing on the couch cushions in front of him.

John folded his hands on Sherlock's left arm and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.

"I won't and I'm not," he replied easily. Sherlock huffed impatiently in disagreement but John stayed where he was, shifting his position a bit to make himself more comfortable. He didn't miss the small adjustments Sherlock made to ensure the maximum amount of contact between their bodies. He smiled slightly to himself and rubbed Sherlock's arm with his thumbs, slow, deep strokes. He knew Sherlock needed a good sulk right now and wasn't about to argue that. He also knew Sherlock needed some support. He suspected the detective had felt guilty enough as it was before Veronique had stopped by to yell at him for awhile. And Sherlock was not good at dealing with guilt – most of the time, he had no understanding as to why he ought to be feeling it in the first place.

John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's arm and settled down more. He saw Sherlock relax a bit as he realized John was not going to leave and that John wasn't angry at him. It certainly didn't stop the sulk but John knew it made things a little better. He didn't envy Sherlock the conversations he'd have to have with Sam so he let his husband have his strop now. When he did talk to Sam, it couldn't be about what Sherlock thought or wanted, and John was pretty sure he knew that. He let Sherlock take the time to be selfish now, because it was better than him being selfish later when it really mattered.

And, if John was honest with himself he enjoyed just lying there with Sherlock, even if his husband was feeling huffy and annoyed. There was something almost peaceful about it. Seven years of living with Sherlock had taught him to take the moments of peace as and when he found them.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam felt like he was being babysat. He was never alone anymore even though he hadn't left the flat much in the past few days. Sandra had taken some time off of work and when Sandra was not there, Veronique or Marian were. He'd been put on emergency medical leave, which chafed. He knew it was necessary, but he hated the inactivity and the lack of control. His days were defined by bursts of energy when he wanted to do something and long periods when the thought of moving was too much and he stayed curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the telly, never remembering afterwards what programmes he'd been watching.

He hated it – but more so he hated how it was hurting Sandra. He was tired, she was tired. If he didn't take his sleeping pills, he couldn't sleep because of the nightmares but the medication made him feel lethargic and groggy when he woke up. He'd tried to skip it one night only to have Sandra shake him awake forcibly; he'd awoken gasping and retching and had lain awake the rest of the night, trying desperately not to think. Sandra had stayed awake with him and the next morning had dark, angry bruises under her red-rimmed eyes. Marian had come over and taken one look at both of them before sending Sandra back to bed and sitting with her brother, watching him fight to keep the memories at bay.

Veronique had told him to stop fighting it, but he couldn't. He couldn't let the memories in all the time – they were jumbled and nonsensical, but still terrifying. It was so much easier to do nothing, to let the images on the telly shut out the images in his mind. Marian was good company because she was willing to sit in silence with him and not press the issue. She wasn't as relentless as Veronique. Deep down, Sam knew this was not what he needed, but he liked it more. It was simpler.

Marian had told their mother what was happening but had also insisted she wait until Sam called her before visiting. Sam appreciated that – he couldn't stand to see the pain in her eyes because it was compounded by guilt. She thought she was supposed to be able to protect him, her baby. He hated seeing her hurt because of him.

If Marian had spoken to their father or Richard, she didn't say anything about it. Sam didn't think she'd bothered – she had a decent relationship with their brother but he didn't. He didn't know when she'd last spoken to their father; he couldn't really remember when he'd done last done so, either.

When he was feeling motivated, he wrote down what he remembered or reread his notes and added to them, but they still made no sense. The order of events was all wrong and there were details that didn't belong there. Sometimes when there was music playing on the television, he listened hard, trying to match it up to the music from his memories. He still had no idea what that was or why he could recall it. Where had it been coming from? How had it inserted itself into his flashback? Something from the Yard, maybe. Perhaps someone had been listening to it and he'd incorporated it somehow.

Occasionally he found himself in other rooms in the flat without really remembering how he got there and forgetting what he was meant to be doing. Once he realized he was on the kitchen floor, sitting against the cupboards, and Marian was holding his hand, talking him gently out of a panic attack.

He just wanted things to get back to normal – he missed feeling like himself, he missed spending time with his wife and not having her evaluating his expressions, his movements, his words. He missed doing normal things like going to work, going for a run in the mornings, going out to a pub or for a walk in the evenings. These were things he _should_ be able to do, but going outside made him feel exposed and closed in at the same time, aware that whomever he was with was paying close attention to him.

He took to cleaning when he wasn't sitting on the couch because at least it got him up and moving around. The repetitiveness helped him focus on nothing, too, keeping the memories largely at bay until he felt steady enough to let them in, just for a little while.

He was working on the kitchen four days after the flashback when Sandra came in and leaned against the wall, watching him. He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled – he knew it wasn't very convincing but he tried all the same. She looked weary, her arms folded loosely over her stomach. He was cleaning the cupboards, pulling everything out and wiping down the shelves.

"Sam," she said. He put the duster down and turned toward her, wishing he could make this better for her. She shouldn't have to carry this for him – it had happened to _him_ after all, not to her. It wasn't her burden. He didn't want to see it in her face anymore. On impulse, he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms before she had a chance to react. He felt her stiffen in surprise then wind her arms around his waist. The familiar warmth felt good, almost normal.

"I'm sorry," he said, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.

She pulled away abruptly and took his face in her hands, her blue eyes searching for something.

"Jesus, Sam, I don't want you to be sorry," she said quickly, shaking her head. "This isn't your fault. Please tell me you remember that."

He took a deep breath and nodded – he knew that. He knew that everything that happened to him was not his fault. But this, right now, he wanted to be able to do something about this, to spare her all of it.

"I know," he said softly. "I know." He covered her hands with his, squeezing her fingers gently.

Sandra took a deep breath and nodded.

"I think you need to talk to Sherlock," she said.

"I don't want to talk to Sherlock," Sam replied quickly, automatically. The thought of doing so made him feel nauseous and cold.

"I know you don't. I know. But I think you need to." She shook her head when he opened his mouth to interrupt and Sam bit back on his words. "I know you're angry with him. But I know you're scared, too. He's the only person who can really tell you what happened, who can help you make sense of what you remember. And I know that's why you're avoiding him. Veronique is right, Sam – you can't fight this forever. You already remember."

He closed his eyes and dropped his head forward, resting his forehead against hers.

"I don't _want_ to remember," he whispered. She nodded again and he felt her warm breath on his lips when she exhaled.

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

He wrapped his arms around her again and held fast, burying his face in her hair, breathing in her familiar scent – vanilla perfume mixed with the smell of her shampoo, something with flowers and citrus, he thought. She hugged him, her chin resting on his left shoulder, her cheek pressed against his temple.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unable to keep it steady.

"I'll do it, for you," he said.

She shook her head, the movement little more than the shifting of her chin against his shoulder.

"Not for me, Sam. For you. You need to do this for yourself."

He pulled back and ran his fingers into her hair so that the heels of his hands framed her face.

"And for you," he said. "It can't just be for me. It's not just about me. No, it's not, Sandra."

She hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

"Okay, for me, too. But for you."

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her forehead then pulled her to him again. Sandra rested her cheek on his chest and kept her arms around his waist.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asked.

"In the cab, yes," Sam said. He had no idea how he'd get home again – after talking to Sherlock, a long cab ride on his own probably wouldn't be a good idea. He'd call Veronique, maybe. Or maybe Sandra could come back. He didn't know. He didn't care. He'd sort it out later.

"If I'm going to do this, it has to be now," he said.

Sandra nodded.

"I'll get our coats," she replied.

* * *

Sherlock pushed himself back from the table and sighed in the silence of the flat when the buzzer to the flat sounded twice in quick succession. That was Sam's ring.

He wondered if he could pretend he wasn't home. The light was on in the kitchen, but it might not be visible through the living room windows. He pursed his lips in displeasure – it wouldn't matter. Sam had managed to get Mrs. Hudson to let him in once before, there was no reason he would not do so now. But perhaps his landlady was home, though? No, Sam could have Interpol trace the location of his mobile. Sherlock supposed he could shut it off, but Sam could also just call John and find out where he was.

He chewed on his lower lip. If John were home, he'd be subjecting the detective to a very disapproving glare right now. Sherlock had known this was coming. He just wished he could postpone it indefinitely until it ceased to be important.

He scowled when the buzzer sounded again.

"Yes, yes," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and making his way down the stairs. He paused with his hand on the doorknob then glowered to himself – this was no way to behave. Sam was hardly a threat. Had he been a criminal mastermind, it was likely he might have kept Sherlock occupied for awhile. But he was not. He was simply an Interpol agent and a friend who had some questions. Nothing more.

Somehow, that prospect seemed so much more daunting.

_You are a genius_ , he told himself firmly. He wasn't going to stand for this kind of mental sabotage.

Sherlock pulled the door open and cocked an eyebrow at Sam to mask any other reaction. The younger man was standing on the pavement with feigned patience, trying not to draw attention to himself. He was dressed casually but the informal dress and the faked composed attitude were undermined by his appearance.

Sam looked worse than Sherlock had ever seen him. He was bordering on being as pale as the detective himself, his face and lips almost completely colourless. Dark rings of purple curved under dim green eyes, his cheeks seemingly sunken and shadowed. His light brown hair was clean but not styled; unusual. He stood with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and despite not slouching or hunching his shoulders, his posture betrayed tension, fatigue, and reluctance. Even a quick glance would have told Sherlock that Sam was not sleeping properly. A more detailed examination suggested he was relying heavily on his sleeping medication, which meant he was suffering from nightmares. He was also not keeping up with his regular exercise routine. Sherlock knew Sam was an avid runner but he had the look of someone who was suffering enforced immobility. Sherlock doubted Sam could have handled the physical activity right now, not if he was sleeping poorly.

He supposed Sam had probably looked much worse when he was in the hospital. The first time Sherlock had seen him had been in London five months after The Bridge. He had not looked well then – he had not _been_ well then. He'd kept a distance between himself and Sherlock and John and he had been just as tense as he was now, if not more so. But there had been something else there that was missing at the moment. Relief, hope. He'd been happy to see them both again, even if being in the same room with two other people had been difficult. The visit had done him good, there had been some laughter in his eyes, in his voice.

Now he looked haunted and worn out.

"I have a case for you."

Sherlock was startled by the tone; it was almost inflectionless, barely hinting at any sort of fatigue even though this was clearly written across his face and in the way he held himself. He was more startled by the words; surely Interpol wasn't requiring that Sam be at work? He could scarcely imagine how that would be beneficial. John had told him that sometimes work was as good as a therapy as time off, because it gave one something else on which to focus. Sherlock couldn't believe that was the case right now for Sam. He'd had a serious flashback that had brought back previously forgotten memories. He doubted Sam would be of any use on the job right now anyway – given how tired he looked, his ability to focus and be productive would be completely compromised.

Sam huffed, his lips twitching into something that might have been the ghost of a smile if it hadn't faded so quickly.

"It's mine," he said and Sherlock blinked in surprise, then felt a flash of apprehension and resignation. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock hesitated another moment then gave a curt nod. He stepped back, holding the door in his left hand, and let Sam inside.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock followed Sam up the stairs, noting the sluggishness of his movements that wasn't born solely from fatigue but from reluctance, too. Sam didn't want to be here talking about this any more than Sherlock did.

_So why is he?_ the detective asked himself, then repressed a scowl. It was astonishing how John didn't even need to be there for Sherlock to imagine his reaction to that comment; he'd put on his Disapproving and Slightly Disappointed John face. It was like having a little observer in his mind all the time. He could not imagine life without John but he'd have preferred that his husband not be able to insinuate his opinions so easily into a situation without even being there.

He waved Sam into a seat and the Interpol agent sank into John's chair, cross-legged.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked. He was normally disinclined to play gracious host, but making tea would at least delay the inevitable and give them both a distraction should they need it.

"Yes, please," Sam replied. "Milk, one sugar."

Sherlock snorted.

"Yes, I know how you take your tea," he said dryly. "I have known you for five years."

Sam chuckled quietly, but it sounded genuine. Sherlock glanced back to see the younger man watching him with a hint of an amused expression. He raised his eyebrows in return and disappeared into the kitchen. The tea was ready too quickly and Sherlock considered finding some means of stretching out the time even more before scowling to himself. He was not going to avoid this, not with Sam waiting in the living room for him.

_It cannot be worse than a conversation with Mycroft_ , he told himself firmly. Fixing that in his mind, he returned to the living room, gave Sam his tea and sat down, his own tea cradled between his hands. Sam fiddled his spoon, stirring his tea absently. Sherlock crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back a bit in his chair, eyes flickering away from his friend, skimming over the telly, the books, the DVDs.

Finally he sighed to himself, his breath mingling with the curl of stream from his tea as he raised it to his lips to sip it carefully.

"How much do you remember?" he asked. No need to ask what events he remembered – he'd been correct in his initial assessment at the Yard. Veronique had told him as much when she'd come by three days ago, apparently for the sole purpose of making him feel guiltier. Sherlock despised guilt – although it was a useful emotion in criminals – and did not understand the need for it. It distracted him and wasted time. And it was not as though he had intended for Sam to recall the events on the bridge.

"I don't know," Sam replied and Sherlock shot him a sharp look but he seemed sincere. "It's disjointed and a lot of it doesn't make sense. Some of it I think isn't real, but it's hard to tell what is and what isn't."

"Tell me everything you remember, even if you think it may not have happened."

Sam glanced away toward the bookshelves and the fireplace, his expression distant, almost blank, but with a shadow of reluctance darkening his eyes, touching the edges of his features. Sherlock filled that silence with silence of his own, letting it stretch until Sam said:

"It was cold."

Sherlock nodded. Sam glanced back at him, lips twitching into a frown.

"Colder than it should have been. I think– no, I know I had been wearing a jacket earlier that day, when he made us walk around down by the Strand."

Sherlock nodded again, sipping his tea.

"I don't think I was wearing one on the bridge," Sam said.

"You weren't," Sherlock confirmed.

Sam gave him a tired, puzzled look.

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Presumably he wanted me to see what he'd done to you, to your arms."

At this, Sam stiffened, tensing his arms and shoulders. His eyes flickered, as if to glance at his wrists, but he shut down on the movement and kept his gaze up, forcing himself to nod. He was still and silent for a moment, then exhaled a deep, unsteady breath and continued.

"I remember waiting for you – it felt like forever. He was– he was chatting with me. Like we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in awhile. Asking after Marian and my mum. He– I don't remember much about that. I just wanted you to get there. To figure it out. I was scared– no, terrified that he'd shoot me before you did – that if you took too long, he'd get bored and just shoot me in the head. But I– Christ, I wanted to die, part of me just wanted him to shoot me and get it over with. Standing up was so hard. It hurt so much. I remember just trying to focus on my breathing and then– I could see you moving between the cars. There was a bus? One of those tour buses? I think there were people still inside of it."

Sherlock nodded again. Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth, shaking his head once.

"You looked so composed, you know. Like you weren't worried at all. Like you were completely in control. I remember– you were moving slowly. You didn't seem concerned. I was– I thought he was going to shoot me then, too. Just to see what you'd do."

He paused, rubbing his forehead with his right hand, his eyes dropping shut for a moment.

"I just wanted you to shoot him. Just shoot him. But then– I was scared that you would because there was something else– I don't know, I can't remember what. I remember saying something to you but I couldn't have. How could I have? He wouldn't have let me say anything. I remember he had my gun pressed against my neck and his hand in my hair, pulling my head back. I remember– I remember he kissed my neck and told you he'd enjoyed his day with me. I remember that because I was trying not to throw up. He– he just– "

Sam stopped, shaking his head, a shudder running through him. Sherlock watched him carefully, listening the sharp inhalation and shaky exhalation.

"What do you think you said to me?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, eyes closed.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know." But his left hand twitched as he spoke. Sherlock leaned forward slightly. The sound of him shifting made Sam's eyes fly back open and focus on him quickly. It took a few seconds for the agent to realise Sherlock had barely moved, to breathe again.

"Look at your left hand," Sherlock said. Sam frowned at him then let his gaze drop reluctantly. "Now tell me what you think you said."

"I don't–" Sam started then cut himself off when his fingers twitched again. He looked back up at Sherlock. "What?"

The detective shifted his mug to his right hand and repeated the C4 motion Sam had made. For a moment, the younger man stared at him blankly.

"C4?" he asked.

"The car behind me was rigged with enough explosive to destroy a large portion of the bridge and kill those who hadn't fled their vehicles. That's what you told me."

Sam stared at him in shock.

"Oh," he said. "Oh." He shook his head as if to clear it and sighed, his gaze darting away again. He drew his legs up and was silent for a long moment, his expression distant, detached.

"I remember the smell of salt water in the air," he finally continued. "Because the tide was in. And I could hear helicopters. People shouting in the distance. And– dogs?"

"That was later," Sherlock said. "They had SAR dogs in to help search for you and Moriarty's body."

Sam blinked, surprise flickering across his features. He managed a stunned nod and licked his lips, his fingers tightening around his mug. Judging by his reaction, he'd realised he had a hazy memory from being in the river.

His features creased into a frown.

"I remember you shot him – you shot him twice."

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head.

"Only once."

"But I– I remember you firing twice. I can hear it. It was– I remember him getting hit. Just the sensation of jerking backwards."

"It was only once, Sam."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion as his eyes slid away again. He was silent, chewing on his lip, then managed a nod.

"I remember wanting to shout at you to shoot him, that it had to end there, that it didn't matter what happened to me. Then I remember him telling you to choose. I remember that happening after you shot him but it couldn't have. You must have shot him after that." He looked back at Sherlock for confirmation and the detective nodded. Sam closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

"Then I remember you caught me," he said. "I thought I was going to fall but you caught me. I know that's not right. But I can feel it. You couldn't have done, you were too far away. But it's– I can remember the feeling of your arms under my shoulders holding me up and you telling me that you had me."

Sherlock felt a flash of shock jolt through him and waited until Sam raised his head and opened his eyes again before answering.

"That was at the Yard, Sam. Four days ago."

Sam stared at him, then nodded slowly.

"And the music? Is that where it comes from?"

Sherlock frowned slightly.

"What music?" he asked.

"There's this – music. I can hear it all the time when I think about it, when I remember things. It's quiet, like it was right on the edge of everything, but it's always there. Like the sound of people yelling in the distance, or the cold air, or the smell of the tide in the river. It's like– it's like it was just close enough for me to hear but I can't make out what it is. It sounds familiar but I can't place it. I keep trying, I keep _trying_ , and it's like a word right on the tip of my tongue but I can't quite remember what it is. Was there someone listening to something at the Yard?"

"No," Sherlock replied simply. "That was on the bridge."

Sam started; clearly he hadn't been anticipating that answer. He gave Sherlock a questioning look and the detective sighed inwardly.

"Someone had left their vehicle running with stereo on. Although, I'm surprised you could hear it – I didn't think you were close enough to do so."

Sam nodded mechanically, his expression still stunned.

"What was it?" he asked in a flat voice.

Sherlock frowned, feeling a flutter of anxiety in his stomach. The sensation was uncomfortable and unwelcome but he set his jaw against it.

"Sam–"

" _What was it, Sherlock?_ " he repeated and this time there was a glancing anger in his voice, in his green eyes.

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head reluctantly.

"Mozart," he replied shortly. "Violin Concerto Number Three. The first movement."

Sam frowned and Sherlock could see him trying to place it. He was silent for a moment, the anger fading from his green eyes as his gaze dropped away. He set his mug aside and leaned forward, rubbing his palms together slowly, absently. Sherlock let him hold the silence, watching his face carefully.

"Mozart," Sam repeated, then shook his head, his lips twitching into something that resembled a grimace more than it did a smile. "Of all the things."

"What would you have preferred?" Sherlock snapped.

Sam looked back at him.

"Nothing. I'd prefer nothing."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. No music or no memories? Likely both. Sam curled up again and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. He was silent for several minutes before asking:

"What happened at the Yard?"

Sherlock scowled to himself.

"You had a flashback."

Sam raised his head quickly, expression suddenly angry.

"Yes, I know that! Would you quit bloody stalling on me and playing your little verbal games? _Why_ did I have a flashback? I need to know so I can keep it from happening again."

"Do you think you can accomplish that?" Sherlock asked. Sam stared at him, green eyes narrowed and bright. Then he dropped his head back again.

"No," he muttered.

Sherlock sighed, resisting the urge to draw his legs up, to stop speaking. It would be simpler not to deal with this, to let the memories go. Simpler for him perhaps. Sam could not do this.

"It was crowded and busy. It was eight days from the anniversary and you were already tense, albeit unconsciously. The crowds and the noise did not help – it was somewhat reminiscent of the crowds on the bridge that day. The timing and the circumstances were both working against you. A sergeant walked by speaking to a constable about C4 at a demolition site."

Sam tensed and held himself still for a moment then raised his head, meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"That's it?" he asked.

"What more would you like it to be?" Sherlock demanded.

"Something more dramatic!" Sam snapped. "Something that couldn't just happen like that! I'm an Interpol agent, Sherlock. I need to be able to go to the Yard and _not_ worry that I'll have a breakdown!"

Sherlock said nothing. Sam sighed and the momentary irritation drained out of him, leaving him looking tense and exhausted. He shifted so he was turned sideways in the chair, his left cheek resting against the back cushion. He closed his eyes and was still and silent for so long that Sherlock began to wonder if he were going to fall asleep.

"Then what?" he asked, his voice quiet, thick with fatigue.

"Then John had Lestrade clear the corridor and he and I sat with you until you had fully regained consciousness."

Sam's expression turned slightly thoughtful and he nodded without opening his eyes.

"Just the two of you?"

"Lestrade came in three times. He stayed no more than a minute each time. He also drove us to your flat."

Sam opened his eyes but stared blankly at nothing.

"You didn't take me to the hospital," he commented, his voice flat, inflectionless.

Sherlock hesitated and saw Sam's eyes flicker toward him, not quite meeting his gaze.

"I judged it best not to," he replied and caught the mild flash of surprise. This irritated him and he narrowed his eyes – deduction was what he did. The fact that Sam would not want to be confined, drugged and possibly restrained was a simple conclusion to reach given his experiences with Moriarty. There was no reason why his ability to make such an inference should be questioned.

"Why were you and John there?" Sam asked.

"A case unrelated to your work. We met up with you unexpectedly. You and John were planning a pub night."

Sam's lips twitched again.

"Wish we could have done that instead."

"Yes," Sherlock said. In retrospect, he would have preferred that as well. It wouldn't have led to him sitting here, having a conversation he did not want to have. He wished Sam could obtain the information he'd come for. He didn't want to be doing this anymore.

"I heard Veronique came to see you."

Sherlock huffed and Sam met his gaze momentarily.

"Yes, she did," he replied with a slight edge in his voice. To his mild exasperation, Sam almost looked amused. "She took the opportunity to express her displeasure in no uncertain terms."

"I bet she did," Sam murmured and there was even a faint hint of mirth in his voice. "She's good at that."

Sherlock gave a quiet snort that was ignored. Sam turned his gaze to stare at the far wall, still curled in on himself. Sherlock watched him for several minutes then sighed inwardly.

"Has this been beneficial in any way?" he asked, working to keep the snappishness out of his voice. He certainly didn't feel like it had been. Sam didn't answer immediately, then gave a slight shake of his head.

"I don't know," he answered. "Maybe. I still feel like absolute shit. But at least the memories make a bit more sense."

Sherlock repressed a roll of his eyes and wondered if logical recollection of the events would make any difference in how Sam managed the emotional trauma. He supposed it could. He would still much prefer Sam had not recalled it at all.

Sherlock finished his tea (which had long since become cold) while Sam sat in silence. Eventually, the younger man pulled his phone from his jeans and sent a text. He stayed where he was for a minute or two, holding the phone loosely, then got stiffly to his feet. Sherlock watched him carefully; every movement and the set of his muscles spoke of complete exhaustion. He looked worse than he had when he'd arrived, if that were possible. Sherlock worried suddenly about the prospect of illness – if Sam kept on like this, the fatigue would weaken his immune system and leave him susceptible to infections. The added stress of illness would then be detrimental to his emotional state.

"You need to sleep," he said sharply.

Sam looked at him in surprise, then nodded.

"I know," he said. "I'm going home. I will. Sandra's coming back to get me."

"You're not helping matters by exhausting yourself," Sherlock retorted.

Sam gave him a weary look and ran a hand through his hair.

"And what do you want me to do, Sherlock? Forget it? Get over it? It takes time. It took time the first time, too. You just never saw me at my worst then. You get to now." He shrugged dismissively. Sherlock found it an inappropriate topic to simply set aside.

"I want you to take proper care of yourself."

Sam looked at him blankly for a moment.

"I'm doing the best I can right now," he said. "This will help. Even if it doesn't seem like that right now."

Sherlock stood and folded his arms, uncertain if he believed that. But Sam did – the expression on his face told the detective as much.

When Sandra texted to say she'd arrived, Sherlock saw Sam out.

"'Night, Sherlock," the younger man said, stopping just on the other side of the doorway at the top of the stairs. Sherlock gave a curt nod.

"Good-night, Sam," he replied. He resisted the urge to shut the door harder than necessary. Instead, he kept it open when he heard the key in the lock as Sam started down the stairs. John was home from work. Sherlock was uncertain if this was perfect or terrible timing. Sam nodded to John on the way past and the doctor returned the gesture with a look of concern. Sam didn't say anything but let himself out into the cool evening air. John lifted his questioning gaze to the top of the stairs, met Sherlock's eyes, glanced behind him at the closed front door, then climbed the stairs to where Sherlock was waiting for him in their flat.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time John got upstairs, Sherlock was already chewing through a pen like it was an Olympic event, pacing the flat with sharp, agitated strides. Shedding his coat and toeing off his shoes, John kept a careful eye on his husband – who acknowledged him with only a grunt and a brief flicker of his grey eyes.

No need to ask what that had been about – it had been pretty obvious by Sam's expression alone. John wondered what he should do, if anything. Sherlock was not exactly emotionally equipped to deal with this kind of thing. He wondered if a sulk was coming, but thought not; it wasn't simple anger that plagued his husband. John could recognize that helpless feeling etched across his face – he'd certainly felt it enough as a doctor and as a soldier. He knew the frustration behind not being able to solve a problem.

Sherlock finally flopped into his chair, legs extended in front of him, his fingers still wrapped around the pen as he gnawed on it. For a moment John considered actually going out to get him some cigarettes. He argued with himself about it – it had certainly helped the night Sibyl died but since then Sherlock had redeveloped his addiction to them. It would help immediately but not in the long run.

John crossed the room, stopping beside Sherlock's chair. The detective gave a small shake of his head and John nodded in response. He'd been fairly sure that his husband didn't want to be touched at the moment – he was far too wound up.

"I need to have a shower," John said. "Is that all right?"

He could see all sorts of snippy retorts lining up, twitching at Sherlock's lips, but his husband swallowed hard and gave a single curt nod.

"Yes," he said, moving the pen from between his teeth but keeping it against his lips. He kept his gaze firmly on the wall but John saw the flicker of eyelashes when he nodded.

"I won't be long."

"Mm," Sherlock replied noncommittally. John brushed his fingers very lightly over Sherlock's shoulder as he turned away.

He half expected Sherlock to join him but was unsurprised to find the detective at the kitchen table ten minutes later, hard at work on some new experiment. Sherlock didn't even look up when John came into the kitchen, still towelling his hair. John saw a brief flicker of acknowledgement but that was it. He draped his towel around his shoulders and crouched down to see what they had for food. Sherlock probably wouldn't eat – or at least not immediately – but John was famished. He settled on spaghetti Bolognese and set to work making it, keeping one ear on Sherlock's work. He was glad not to be inside his husband's mind right now. Given how tense Sherlock looked, it probably wasn't a pleasant place.

"Are you hungry?" he asked when he'd finished cooking and was dishing himself up a heaping plate of pasta.

"No," Sherlock said curtly. John nodded – that wasn't a surprising answer. Sherlock almost never admitted to being hungry and certainly not when he was upset.

"I'll put the leftovers in the fridge."

"Where else would you put them, John?" Sherlock snapped and John glanced back in time to see the flash of self-recrimination cross his features. He hadn't meant to say that and now he was waiting for John to be angry with him. John was getting better about putting his foot down about how he was treated when Sherlock was feeling off-kilter, but he was willing to let that one pass. There was a difference between Sherlock being deliberately rude because he was sulky and Sherlock being tetchy because he was genuinely disconcerted.

When John didn't say anything, Sherlock let out an abrupt sigh and set down the Petri dish and eyedropper he'd been working with. He didn't look back at John, but the stiffness in his posture indicated that he was waiting for some sort of retort.

"I'm not angry," John said and at this, Sherlock did glance over his shoulder in surprise. John just gave him a nod. "Why don't you keep working? I'll be in the living room. Come join me when you want to."

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment then nodded once, returning to his work. John paused on his way past the table and leaned down to press a kiss against the top of his husband's head.

John settled into his chair and picked up his laptop. It was on and he was logged in, which meant Sherlock had been using it again because his was – John glanced up – a whole five metres away on the desk. He rolled his eyes and checked his email to make sure none of the new messages had been pre-screened for him, but Sherlock appeared to have been ignoring John's email. He made a mental note to clear his browser history without checking it. He didn't want to know. If MI5 came knocking at their door demanding to know why he'd broken into their system, he could claim genuine ignorance.

He had some new comments on his recent blog posts so he opened those up, but they weren't addressed to him. They were back-and-forth between Tricia and Bill Murray. John rolled his eyes with a smile; somehow, the two of them had taken to using his blog as a messaging system. He really didn't mind though; they all had some good conversations that way.

_T. Remsen: Bill – I don't know, I think it's an NHS vs. private hospital thing, but I'm not an admin (thank god) so I can't say for sure._

_Bill Murray: I think you're probably right. I don't care enough to really find out, just thought you might know. How's Jo?_

_T. Remsen: She's brilliant, thanks for asking. How are your kids?_

_Bill Murray: Fine, excited, we just got a puppy last weekend._

_T. Remsen: Haha, sorry to hear that – more work for you and Terri._

_Bill Murray: Tell me about it. But we love her, too. Her name's Sparky. Don't ask. Kids named her._

_Bill Murray: Hey, John, Terri's going up to Warwick with the kids next weekend but I'm stuck here because of work. Pub night for the three of us?_

_T. Remsen: Checked with Henry, he said Friday night is fine – we have plans Saturday evening._

John grinned and logged onto his blog.

_John Watson: Next Friday it is!_

He doubted Sherlock would feel left out; he was not generally inclined to going to pubs unless he could have John to himself and he was even less inclined to enjoy it if John were with old army mates. He could clearly envision Sherlock rolling his eyes and muttering "ugh, dull" under his breath.

He read through the comments again, chewing lightly on his lower lip. Something in there was tugging at a memory but he couldn't quite place what. John tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, tapping his fingers absently against his laptop. He stopped when he heard an agitated sigh coming from the kitchen. He drummed his fingers against his leg instead, since that would be inaudible to his currently cantankerous husband.

Then he frowned with realization and sat up straighter, refocusing on his computer. John logged out of his blog and opened a search engine, thinking for a moment before typing something in quickly.

He was so immersed in reading and making little notes for himself in an email that he didn't hear Sherlock come in from the kitchen.

"Please tell me you're not interested in getting a dog."

The sound of Sherlock's voice right behind him made John start and he fumbled to catch hold of his laptop to keep it from hitting the floor.

"Bloody hell!" he said automatically. "Sherlock, you scared the life out of me!"

"Hardly," Sherlock drawled. "As you're still conscious and breathing. It's scarcely my fault if you don't pay close enough attention to your surroundings to hear me come into the room. I was in no way attempting to be silent and the floorboards are particularly prone to creaking two thirds of the way between your chair and the kitchen."

John sighed and leaned his head back, trying to convince his heart that it was all right to stop beating quite so fast.

"I don't want a dog," Sherlock continued.

"I'm not suggesting we get one," John assured him. Sherlock pointed a long finger accusingly at the screen.

"You're clearly researching dog adoption organizations."

"Not for me," John replied.

"Then for whom? Not Tricia. She's a cat person." Sherlock said this with a faint sneer and John was amused that cats ranked lower than did dogs – he could easily picture his husband with a haughty, fussy cat sitting on his lap.

"Not Tee," John agreed. "Look, here, let me show you."

Sherlock settled onto the arm of John's chair and John made it to a mental count of two before his husband was trying to squeeze in on the cushion beside him.

"Let's go sit on the couch," the doctor suggested, knowing that Sherlock had passed through the jumpy stage in which he wouldn't want to be touched and would now flop all over John given half the chance. They ended up sitting with John resting between Sherlock's legs, his back pressed to his husband's chest, Sherlock's chin resting on John's shoulder, his arms around John's waist. He was absently tracing little patterns on John's stomach, which was a bit distracting for the doctor but he made himself ignore it. After nearly seven years, he'd learned to distinguish between the touches that were deliberate and those that were unconscious.

John called up the first page he'd been looking at and felt Sherlock frown a bit in confusion at the American flag background splashed across the screen.

"When I was in Afghanistan, an American doctor was told me about a programme that an injured vet had started in the States to provide service dogs to vets with PTSD. There are a lot of these kinds of services for people with physical disabilities – blindness, seizures – but nothing really for people with mental illnesses. Especially veterans."

He felt Sherlock shift uncomfortably and turned his head enough to meet his husband's eyes.

"Like I said, not for me," he assured Sherlock with a small but heartfelt smile. "Something Bill said on my blog about them getting a dog made me think of it. So I started looking and found this…"

He clicked into another tab and Sherlock refocused on the screen.

"Someone started up a similar service over here for our own soldiers. Based in Birmingham – you know, where the Queen Elizabeth Hospital is. Makes sense. They've been up and running for about three years now. Look at all of these stories." He scrolled through a handful of them, too quickly for Sherlock to read but rather to get an idea of the response of the programme. "The American who started the service in the States, he says it's easier to talk to the dog about what he's going through because there's no judgement, no questions, nothing like that."

"I can hardly imagine that a dog replaces a trained and competent psychologist," Sherlock said dryly. John smiled.

"It doesn't," he agreed. "But it can help. The Birmingham programme has a link to this…"

He clicked on it and felt Sherlock shift against him again, this time in curiosity.

"A couple years ago, a former Met sergeant named Tim Richards started up a programme in London after he was shot on duty and had to retire. His service provides dogs for current or former Met officers who are injured – especially on the job – and who are suffering PTSD."

Sherlock pulled away slightly and John turned enough to see the look of astonishment on his husband's face. He shrugged lightly.

"Sam was a Met officer, even if he was undercover for Interpol. He worked there for years – he had a rank, he had a partner, and he was injured doing his job. He'd probably qualify. It might help."

"You want me to tell him," Sherlock said, half stating, half asking. John shook his head.

"No, let me talk to Sandra about it. She should be the one to bring it up."

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved. He tightened his arms around John's waist and dropped his chin back onto the doctor's shoulder, pressing a kiss against John's neck.

"You know, you're rather brilliant."

"Am I?" John replied with a smile.

"On occasion. Don't let it go to your head," Sherlock warned but John felt the smile against his skin.

"Come on," he said, shutting his laptop, and Sherlock raised his head again, a glint in his grey eyes. John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. Let's go for a walk."

"I don't want to go for a walk."

"Well I do, and you need to get out of the flat and get some fresh air. You can make snide deductions about the other pedestrians. You need some of that. And you need to move around."

Sherlock huffed and John felt the warm breath on his skin. He arched an eyebrow – he knew that was a ploy to try and get him to change his mind.

"Then we'll come back and do whatever you want," John said.

" _Whatever_ I want?" Sherlock asked, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Within reason," John sighed and Sherlock feigned a pout before burrowing his face in John's shoulder. John grinned and laced a hand into his hair, tugging lightly.

"Come on, Holmes, on your feet."

"I'm not a soldier," Sherlock growled into John's jumper. "You can't order me about."

"You order me around all the time," John chuckled. "Up, let's go, come on."

He got up and Sherlock heaved himself reluctantly to his feet, giving John a dramatic glare and then scowling when he only got a grin in return. Realising he was not going to win, he put on a light jacket and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock stopped him and searched John's face in the dim lighting. John gave him a quizzical look before the detective cupped a hand against the doctor's face, leaned down and kissed him.

"You're brilliant and I love you," Sherlock said. John smiled.

"I love you, too," John replied.

"And _my_ brilliance?" Sherlock growled.

"Unparalleled," John chuckled. He hooked his arm through Sherlock's as they stepped out of the building and into the cool evening air.


	10. Chapter 10

Sandra left on her errands two minutes before Marian arrived. Sam stood in the middle of his empty flat, eyes closed, just breathing in the silence, feeling lightheaded by the sudden if all-too-temporary freedom. When the buzzer sounded he sighed to himself but let his sister in. If he didn't, she was liable to call the police.

He waited in his doorway, watching Marian climb the stairs to his flat. She smiled up at him, one hand trailing along the banister, moving a bit more slowly than she used to.

"In your own time," he said with a smile and she rolled her eyes at him.

"It's only going to get worse," she replied.

"At least I'm only on the first floor."

"Believe me, I'm already grateful for that. You'll just have to start coming round to visit me in oh – about a month, I suppose."

"You're not that big," Sam said.

"Well that's the thing about babies, Gabe, they grow."

He stiffened slightly at his given name then drew a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Marian and his mother were the only people who called him that anymore. Years ago, when he'd first come back to London, she'd offered to start calling him 'Sam' but he'd refused. Back then, he didn't think he could handle seeing the effort it would have taken and hearing his sister use his first name had made him feel some connection to his past.

Now it just made him shudder and he wished he'd taken her up on her offer. He felt detached from the person he'd been growing up, as if the memories he had of his childhood actually belonged to a stranger. There were times when he felt he could barely recall who he'd been when he'd actually been Gabriel. It had been a lifetime ago.

He made himself smile again when she gained the landing and let out a relieved sigh. Marian kissed him on the cheek and he gestured for her to go inside. Sam took her coat from her and told her to make herself at home – although he scarcely needed to say that anymore. He thought she'd been here more in the past week than she had during the past year. It made him a bit sad; it wasn't that they didn't speak often or that they avoided one another. They were both busy – it was just life.

But he was going to have a niece or nephew in four months. He was going to have to make time.

"Do you want tea?" he asked, running through a mental checklist of things he needed to do to be a normal host. "Sandra made a fresh batch of scones this morning."

"I can make it," Marian replied, smiling at him and moving to rise from the couch where she'd already settled down but Sam shook his head.

"It's my flat," he insisted. "And it makes me feel like I'm not a completely useless invalid."

"You're not a useless invalid, Gabe."

He was glad his back was to her when she said this, because his name made him flinch lightly again. He swallowed on the reaction, angry at himself. The conversation with Sherlock the day before had left him jumpy and anxious – more so than he already had been. It was wearing on his nerves. It should have helped. It had helped, but it had also made him more aware of everything.

"Well, I feel like one," he sighed. He got out two mugs and filled the kettle, then looked over his shoulder when he heard his sister come into the kitchen. She pulled him into a hug and held onto him tightly. Sam hugged her back, closing his eyes, some of the anxiety and unhappiness he'd been carrying since the day before evaporating.

"You aren't," she said. "You got through worse before and you'll get through this, even if it doesn't feel like it right now. You're one of the toughest people I know."

He gave a dry chuckle that was not much more than a sigh.

"I'd trade some of that for not having to be tough," he said.

"I know," Marian replied. "We'd all trade it for you, if we could." She kissed his cheek, then released him. "Come on. You get the scones, I'll make the tea. Then neither of us is useless."

"You're not useless, either," he pointed out. She sighed and shot him a wry look.

"Right, _you_ try being pregnant."

"Um, pretty sure that's not going to happen," Sam replied with a hint of a real smile. Marian grinned back at him. "Besides, you don't actually want to strain yourself."

"Making tea, opening a door, carrying the laundry up two flights of stairs, those are all real strains," she said with a chuckle. "You sound like Pete. Give it a couple of months and he won't even let me pick up a tissue. But then, neither will you."

Sam rolled his eyes at her and they went back into the living room. He took his mug from Marian but she put hers on the table and pulled her phone from her purse.

"I have something to show you," she said with a smile. Sam took the phone curiously and then grinned at the picture of a sonogram on the screen.

"When was this?" he asked.

"Yesterday," Marian said. He looked up to see her beaming at him, her hazel eyes bright with pride. She and her partner, Peter, had tried for years to have a baby and had eventually given up, resigning themselves to the fact that they could not. That had been two years ago. Five months ago, Sam had been almost as stunned as his sister to find out that she was expecting.

"You have a niece," Marian said delightedly. Sam looked down at the picture again and grinned.

"She's brilliant," he said.

"Her name is Gabrielle."

His head shot back up, his smile vanishing, shock taking its place. Marian was still smiling but there was caution touching her features. Sam just stared at her.

"After her uncle. Please don't say no, you won't change my mind. Pete agreed with me. Mum and I are the only people who call you Gabe anymore. Even Pete calls you Sam. And I understand why, but I do miss it. Mum misses it, too. It was your name. It _is_ your name. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I just want to remember it. I want to keep it alive in our family."

Sam looked back down at the image of the tiny baby – of Gabrielle. He wondered what she'd be like in four months, in a year, in ten years, in twenty. What would she think of the uncle from whom she inherited her name? Would she wonder why only her mother and grandmother called him Gabe? Would she call him that, or would it be 'Uncle Sam'? Would he have to explain it one day, tell her about the police constable who'd been kidnapped from his own home, drugged, and raped – all so that a dangerous criminal could be stopped? Would she want to know? Would she care?

"What if he's dead?" he asked without looking up.

"What?" Marian demanded sharply. Sam sighed, raising his gaze again.

"What if Gabe is gone, Marian? What if whoever I was before all of this just – doesn't exist anymore?"

Marian folded her hands on the cushion of the couch and searched his face.

"Why would you say that?" she asked quietly.

Sam sighed, looking down at the phone again.

"I don't– I can't really remember what I was like before. Before all of this happened, five years ago. But before that, too. Before I joined Interpol, before I left and went to France for training then went undercover. It's like– it's like it wasn't real. Not really me."

He risked a glance up to find her watching him warmly, sympathetically. It made him want to look away, to deny it, to ask her to stop. He swallowed on the words. Marian shook her head slightly and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ears.

"Gabe, you're a man who's happy because he's worked to make himself happy. Maybe not right now, this instant, but mostly. I know this is terrible and I know it must seem like it won't ever end. But two weeks ago, you _were_ happy. You have a brilliant wife who loves you, you have a great job, you have a good life. Despite everything that happened. You can get there again. You know that. Even if it's hard to believe right now."

She held up a hand, shaking her head when he tried to interject, and continued.

"Before all this, when we were kids? What do you think, Gabe? Is it easier to think that things were better back then?"

"It had to be better than this," Sam sighed.

"Better than right this second, yeah," Marian agreed. "But everything else? Do you remember what it was like to live in a place you hated with people who didn't have enough time for you?"

Sam started to say something but she silenced him again.

"I do," she said. "I remember. I remember just wanting to get out so badly."

"You did," Sam said. She'd moved to London the day she'd turned eighteen, leaving him in Bracknell with their mother. At least by that time, their brother had moved away to Liverpool for work.

Marian nodded.

"Do you know I saved all the money I could from my job and from babysitting? I hid it in a pillowcase. There was a loose floorboard in my closet. I put it under there. I'd count it every weekend until I was sure I had enough to come here."

"I didn't know that," Sam said.

"Well, I wasn't going to uni, not with my grades the way they were – I didn't want to, either. I just wanted out of Bracknell, away from the same tired people doing the same thing their parents did."

"So did I," Sam replied, a hint of hardness in his voice. Marian's lips twitched into something resembling a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It was better after Mum and Dad split up, I think. At least Mum knew how smart you were even if she didn't really know what to do with it. You could have gone to uni. Maybe you should have gone to uni, Gabe. Maybe it would have been better. I don't know. You were miserable."

He felt a ripple of shock course through him and his grip loosened then retightened on her phone.

"Oh, not to me. Not to your mates. But to everyone else. And why not?" She shrugged. "I probably was, too. I think you were a happy kid when you were small. You always were with me, anyway."

"Because you actually paid attention," Sam snapped. Marian just nodded. She'd always looked out for him, stood up for him against Richard, played with him, took him on hours-long adventures in the woods near the school just to get them both out of the house. He wondered suddenly if that was also because she'd had no one else, not really.

"But you weren't a happy teenager." Sam smirked and Marian rolled her eyes. "I mean, more so than normal. Happy teenagers don't rob convenience stores just to see if they can. Not like that, anyway. And then Veronique found you."

Sam almost smiled at the memory, but part of him wished now that she hadn't found him or that he'd said no to her offer. What would have been different? There would have been no Jim Moriarty. All of that would be gone. Maybe he would have gone to university. Maybe he'd be working some highly paid, boring nine-to-five job, living a shiny new flat in the centre of London, drinking martinis at lunch with clients. Or maybe he'd be in prison – Veronique had threatened to prosecute his thefts.

Looking back now, he thought she might have been bluffing. If Interpol had been able to pin it on him, why not have the police here or in France arrest him? He wondered how she'd caught onto him and tracked him down. He wondered if it had been her idea or if someone had assigned her to the task.

He knew he'd never know.

He closed his eyes briefly, rubbing a hand wearily across them. As soon as he shut his flat from view, he saw Sherlock standing in front of him, gun aimed, felt the cold air, the pain, heard the sound of Moriarty's mocking laugh, of Sherlock's carefully paced words.

He wanted to strip that all away, to go back and tell his seventeen year old self to say no. To walk away, to say no, to face whatever else might be waiting for him.

"I know it's shit right now, Gabe," his sister said and he opened his eyes again. She curled one hand over his along the back of the couch. "I know. But if you got rid of everything else, would it be all right to get rid of this?"

She glanced away, her eyes sweeping over the living room, then back.

"No," Sam said quietly. He didn't want to trade everything he had, only the worst of it. Not Sandra. "I can't do this anymore, Marian. I'm exhausted. I just want it to stop."

"I know," she repeated softly, squeezing his hand. "And it will."

He leaned his head back against the couch and looked up at the ceiling. He wondered if she was right. It didn't feel like she was, not really. The memories from the bridge ghosted along the edges of his mind, always there, always ready to jump to the fore when given the chance. He wanted them to fade like the other memories had but he didn't want to wait. The idea of it taking time was unbearable. He wanted his life back. He wanted to feel normal again, like Sam again.

He thought of himself as a teenager and wondered how much miserable he'd have been if he had known what was in store.


	11. Chapter 11

"Never understood why people cared so much about that stuff."

Sandra jumped. Waiting for John to finish his shift at the surgery, she'd been skimming vaguely through a magazine while her mind wandered. It took her a minute to work out what he meant, before he said:

"Does it really matter what Kate is wearing?"

Sandra gave him a slight smile.

"I suppose to some people it does."

"Well I certainly can't afford her dresses," John replied. Sandra's smile widened a bit and he grinned at her. "Come on, let's get out of here before I get any walk-in patients."

He took her to a favourite café, about a ten minute walk away. It felt strange but wonderful to be out doing something normal with a friend. The realisation made her feel guilty immediately and she tried to quell the reaction. She knew Sam was at home with Marian and that he probably desperately wanted a normal day out as well. She thought maybe she should go home. Part of her wanted to, part of her didn't. She tried to remind herself that it was all right to do things for herself as well.

She and John chatted about inconsequential things while they walked – their jobs, the weather, memories of being students at Bart's. When they arrived at the café, John insisted on buying her coffee and scones despite her protests that she could pay for own fare.

"You bought me Chinese food in the hospital the first night I was on your ward," he said as they sat down at a table outside, wrapped in their jackets against the cool autumn breeze.

"You remember that?" Sandra asked.

"I'll always remember that," John replied, giving her a steady look.

"It was so long ago. And you were so worried about Sherlock."

"And a nurse I barely knew brought me real food so I didn't have to leave – because I _couldn't_ leave. Not many people would do that. How are you doing right now, Sandra?"

She sighed, stirring her coffee absently, aware that it was too late in the day to be drinking coffee but not actually caring.

"I'm all right," she said. "It's– it's been rough. It's hard to sleep properly, because Sam's still taking his sleep medication and– I don't know, I just don't like it. He's been really moody, up and down; most of the time he just sits and watches telly but then I'll catch him cleaning like a madman, trying to distract himself. Veronique came over from France – that's helped – but he's still so tense, trying to fight it."

John nodded, sipping his coffee.

"I know Veronique's here – she stopped by the flat the other day to yell at Sherlock for a bit. And I absolutely didn't find that even a tiny bit amusing, I promise," he said, with a glint in his eyes. "But I didn't ask about Sam. I can guess how he's doing. I asked about you."

She stared at him in surprise then nodded, realising the question had become about Sam in the past several days, even when it was being directed at her.

"Tired," she sighed. "Really tired. And sad." She was appalled to feel tears prickling in her eyes and blinked them back rapidly. She was not going to cry in front of a café full of strangers. Sandra swiped quickly at her eyes and then cleared her throat. John gave her an understanding look. From anyone else, she might have resented it, but he knew what it felt like.

"You need to take care of yourself," John said. Sandra nodded quickly.

"I know. It's just– I feel guilty. I hate that I have to go back to work next week – and I hate that I'm looking forward to it. I know when I'm there I'll want to be at home, but when I'm at home, I want to be somewhere else. And that makes me feel worse because I don't want to be without Sam. I just want him to be okay. I want things to go back to normal."

She raked her hands through her hair and sighed unsteadily, trying to re-centre herself.

"And I know he wants that, too. But then I worry about neglecting him if I treat him that way."

"I understand," he replied. "He may be feeling the same thing about you."

Sandra gave him a puzzled glance and John shrugged.

"After I was sent back from Afghanistan, there were times when I got sick of people treating me like an invalid. Going out of their way to try and make me comfortable, or feeling guilty if they forgot for a few minutes. Sometimes I just wanted them to forget completely and treat me like John, not like a set of walking injuries. Sam might need a bit of that now. Even if you think he doesn't."

She sighed – John was probably right but it felt like a horrible thing to do, to demand normality from Sam right now. She wondered how much he was craving it.

"And he probably wants to be able to treat you like he normally would," John pointed out. "If you miss it, then he does, too."

Sandra hadn't thought about that – she hadn't really given much thought to how Sam saw this affecting her. He'd apologized to her once but she hadn't stopped to consider that he was really feeling guilty and upset, that he may want to change this not just for himself, but for her as well. The thought shocked her and she stared at her coffee before sipping it mechanically, barely aware of the taste.

"I know he's got a good support system and that Interpol will give him the time off that he needs. But I found something else that might help."

John shifted slightly so he could take his wallet from his back pocket. He unfolded the worn leather and pulled out a scrap of paper. Sandra read the unfamiliar name and number that had been scrawled hastily on it, then looked back up at John questioningly.

"There's a programme here run by Sergeant Richards to provide service dogs for Met officers suffering from PTSD. It's based off of similar programmes in Birmingham and in the States for army veterans. I contacted him to see if former Met officers qualified and he told me they did."

John shrugged, sipping his coffee.

"Look it up," he suggested. "It might help. I read a lot about it online, stories from Met officers and veterans who got dogs. All of them said it made a world of difference."

Sandra stared at him a minute then let her gaze drop down to the card again. She stayed silent for a long moment before looking back up. John was watching her with warmth and concern.

"Thank you, John," she said softly.

He smiled a genuine smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and lit his brown irises, making them seem even kinder and brighter. She had a flash of memory to the man sitting beside Sherlock's hospital bed, exhausted, terrified, and distressed. He really did understand. He'd been there.

It helped to know she wasn't alone.

"You're welcome."

* * *

Sandra exhaled sharply and rubbed her hands together as the main door to her building shut behind her. The temperature had dropped sharply when the sun had begun to set and she could have done with gloves on her walk home from the tube. She inhaled a breath of warm air then headed up the stairs to her flat.

Halfway up the flight, she caught a whiff of roasted garlic and rosemary and her stomach perked up at the idea. She smiled slightly to herself – their neighbours across the hall were also avid cooks. She wondered what they'd made until she realized with a jolt that the smells were coming from her own flat. She paused in surprise on the last step and inhaled again. The scent permeated the air, filling her nostrils, making her stomach rumble.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside to the warmth that came from having the oven on and to the additional aroma of roasted chicken and potatoes. Sam was sitting on the couch but looked round with a smile when she came in. Sandra evaluated his appearance quickly but the smile was genuinely chasing away some of the shadows in his eyes. They were still there, clinging to the edges, and the circles under his eyes hadn't really faded but he looked happy to see her.

Marian wasn't in evidence.

"Marian left just after you texted," he said and Sandra nodded, trying to remember how long ago that had been. Then she chastised herself – it was a five minute walk from the tube station to their flat. Sam was a grown man. He could be on his own for five minutes. He probably wanted to be on his own for longer than that, but she worried about him having a panic attack by himself.

"And you cooked?" she asked as she shed her coat and Sam stood. He circled the couch and took her coat from her to hang it up.

"Yes," he replied, giving her a smile that seemed only slightly strained. "Well, I got the roasted chicken from the store. But I did the potatoes and veggies myself."

Sandra smiled slightly.

"Okay, Marian helped a little," he admitted. "But not much."

"You didn't have to make dinner," Sandra said.

"I know," Sam replied simply. "I wanted to do something nice for you." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lightly. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," she replied, looking around her. Sam had set their small kitchen table with care, a bottle of white wine taking centre stage. He saw her notice and moved to pour her a glass, watching as she sipped the dry liquid appreciatively. A glass of water sat by his place – he couldn't drink on his medication.

He served them each a plate of roasted chicken with gravy, rosemary roasted potatoes, and roasted green beans and cherry tomatoes. Sandra pushed herself from her chair, leaning across the table to kiss him. Sam hesitated in surprise for a moment, then kissed her back.

"Thank you," she said with feeling. "I appreciate this."

He gave her a slight smile, one filled with love, ruefulness, and some amusement.

"I appreciate you," he replied.

Sam insisted on doing the washing up afterwards despite her protests, shooing her into the living room. Sandra took the opportunity to curl up on the sofa, and surf the internet, the telly on low in the background. It felt peaceful, normal, unhurried. When he finally joined her on the sofa, she turned the telly off and passed the laptop to him without a word – he took it with a brief, questioning glance at the page displayed on the screen.

"What this?" he asked, eyes flickering back to her.

"John found it," Sandra replied. "It's a service that provides shelter dogs to injured Met officers. Former Met officers qualify, too, especially if they were injured on duty."

"I'm not–" Sam started.

"You _were_. I don't think they'll split hairs over the fact that you were undercover. You still worked for the Met, Sam."

He hesitated, looking back at the webpage.

"You want me to get a dog?"

Sandra shook her head slightly, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It took a moment to realize that he wasn't tensing at her touch and Sam seemed to realize at the same time. He glanced at her, but Sandra smiled slightly and didn't move her hand.

"It's up to you, Sam," she replied. "Read up on it and think about it. You don't have to – I certainly don't want you to just because I suggested it. If you want one, we'll get one." She shrugged lightly. "I just want you to consider it."

He glanced at the screen again then back at her.

"All right," he agreed.

"I'll let you read then," she said. "I have laundry to do." Truthfully, they didn't have enough that it needed to be done immediately, but she wanted to give him some time alone to read and she had no other chores to do.

Sam nodded and Sandra rose, pausing when he snagged her hand and pressing a kiss against the backs of her fingers.

"I love you, you know," he said.

She smiled a small but heartfelt smile.

"I know, Sam. I love you, too."


	12. Chapter 12

_What the bloody hell were you thinking?_ _You can barely take care of yourself. How are you supposed to take care of a dog?_

Sam sat on his couch, absently scratching the dog behind her ears. He wondered if she could pick up on his inner monologue through some subtle shift in his scent or movements. But she seemed content to be there, wagging her tail happily, grinning a doggy grin.

He wondered if she'd roll her eyes at him if she could. _She_ was supposed to be taking care of _him_ , after all. Rather, they were supposed to be taking care of each other. Sam had spent three solid days reading up on dog care until he felt he'd exhausted the topic, but when they'd actually got the dog he immediately felt completely unprepared to deal with her. He wondered if this was how people felt about having babies. Maybe he should warn Marian.

So far he'd managed with the basics because they weren't hard. She had food and water. She had a place to sleep. He and Sandra had taken her on a long walk the previous day and played with her for a bit in a nearby park. It seemed fairly straightforward.

Sam kept waiting for something to crop up and surprise him. Maybe he was forgetting something hugely important? Richards had told him not to worry about it too much, that Sam would know if she needed something. But how? She couldn't exactly speak to him.

But the former Met sergeant had been on to something. _Well, of course_ , Sam told himself. Richards knew dogs. He'd picked this one for Sam specifically, remembering his case as a lot of officers did. Sam was reluctantly used to the idea by now, used to seeing the same mixture of disbelief and bemusement whenever someone made the connection, as if they were trying to work out the odds of his survival. Often he saw pity. Sometimes he saw animosity – the Met had put on a large funeral, after all. A lot of people had attended. It had cost a lot of money.

From Richards, he'd only seen understanding. It had been a relief. Then it had been a shock to be paired up with a dog that had taken to him so immediately that Sam hadn't been able to imagine not adopting her the moment he met her.

She didn't have a name – not one the shelter knew anyway. She'd been dropped off at the shelter one night without any information, no collar, no chip. Sam had no idea why anyone would do that, but Richards said it happened too much for his liking. People got fed up with the responsibility or the cost or the novelty wore off. But she'd obviously been cared for and trained. She was well behaved and listened to both him and Sandra. So far. They'd only had her a day.

Richards thought she was about six years old and a blue heeler-border collie cross. Sam liked her colouring, vivid black and speckled white. The former sergeant had called her Jess for something to call her, after one of his daughters. Sam wasn't sure it suited her. Richards had told Sam he was free to rename her. She answered to Jess and had taken to it quickly. She was a bright dog, that much was obvious to Sam even after twenty-four hours.

He couldn't think of another name to give her though.

"What should we do?" he asked her and her ears perked up slightly at the sound of his voice. She gave him a quizzical look and Sam smiled slightly.

Sandra had actually left him on his own. Not especially enthusiastically, but she'd done it, in the end. Joanna had rung her to see if she wanted to go shopping and Sam had encouraged her to go, more for her sake than his. She needed the return to normality as much as he did.

Two days ago, he would have taken the opportunity to curl up on the couch and stare blankly at the telly – precisely the same thing he had been doing when Sandra was at home. It felt odd to do that with a dog watching him in a way it did not with another person in the flat. Like she was expecting something from him, but without any pressure. Like she was curiously waiting to see what he'd do.

Well, she needed a walk. He could do that.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" he asked her. Her ears perked all the way up and she started wagging her tail harder, completely focused on him now. Sam smiled again and stood. She followed him obediently, waiting patiently, her tail beating against the door, as he put on his shoes and jacket. He put her on her lead then sent Sandra a quick text to tell her that he was taking the dog to Regent's Park. It was a bit of a cab ride but he didn't mind. He thought the cabbie was a bit put off by having a dog in his car, but Jess was well behaved and sat calmly on the floor the whole way.

_Why would anyone get rid of a dog like her?_ he asked himself again.

They ambled through the park in the sunshine and cool air. The breeze swirled leaves around them, scattering a flurry of yellow across the path and the drying grass. It was chilly but not unpleasantly so and the park was well populated. Sam wondered at his actions again – he hadn't been out on his own since the flashback at all, especially not so far from home, especially not surrounded by this many strangers.

He scowled to himself. Why did he expect himself to break?

_Because it happened_ , his mind supplied and his scowl deepened. He smoothed over his features deliberately, keeping them blank. He was tired of arguing with himself. He was taking his dog for a walk in a park. That was it.

He thought about putting on his headphones and listening to music – listening to the music that had been playing on the bridge five years ago. Now that he knew what it was, he thought about playing it every day, several times an hour. But he could not work up the courage. Talking to Sherlock had brought back more memories and slotted some of the disjointed ones into place. Sam couldn't imagine what listening to the piece would do.

And he told himself he liked the sound of the autumn leaves in the breeze and the voices around him.

Jess was sniffing at everything she could as they walked, but kept close to him. Sam walked without thinking or considering the time, knowing she'd need a long outing to properly tire her out. He wondered what he and Sandra would do when they were both back at work, but they'd sort out something. Their neighbours across the hall also had a dog. They could probably help each other out.

He strolled absently, letting his feet take him wherever they wanted. Sam didn't think, just walked, and the dog seemed happy to accompany him. He let his mind wander, barely paying attention to his surroundings, moving for pedestrians and cyclists almost automatically.

He stopped abruptly after some time, sighed, and looked up.

He was standing in front of 221B Baker Street. The worn and scratched brass numbers gleamed back at him in the fading afternoon light. He raised his eyes even more, but there were no lights on and he couldn't see any figures in the windows. He had no idea if Sherlock were even home, but there was only one way to find out.

* * *

Sherlock looked up from his work and sighed when he heard Sam's ring. This was the second unannounced visit and Sherlock was no more enthusiastic about it than he had been the first time. Less now, because he knew what to expect.

He went downstairs to open the door, feeling an uncomfortable flash of familiarity at the action. He had been burdened with a case he did not want but felt unable to simply dismiss; an unwelcome sensation, yet not as annoying as it perhaps should have been. John would have pointed out that this was because Sam was Sherlock's friend and he cared about the agent. Sherlock acknowledged this was true, but it was best not to let these sort of things get around.

Sam looked somewhat better than the last time Sherlock had seen him. The circles under his eyes weren't as deep and he wasn't holding himself quite as rigidly. He still did not look like Sherlock's mental image of _Sam_ , however, and this displeased the detective.

He was more displeased by the presence of a dog on a lead sitting patiently at Sam's feet. When it saw him, it wagged his tail. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at it, but this seemed to have no effect.

He had assumed that Sam would get one after John had shared his findings with Sandra. Sherlock had spent some time perusing the websites, glancing at the comments from soldiers and officers who had used the services. The evidence – though anecdotal – supported the hypothesis that dogs could be helpful.

He hadn't anticipated that Sam was going to bring the dog to Baker Street, however.

"Are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here staring at each other all day?" Sam asked and Sherlock scowled. He considered saying no, because of the dog, but stepped back with bad grace.

"It's not allowed on the furniture," he said sharply.

"She, Sherlock. She's a she. And she's well trained. She'll behave."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes somewhat. He was not inclined to believe that. He had a small child in the flat on a regular basis and she did not always listen to instructions. There was no reason an animal with a far smaller cranial capacity would.

Sherlock led them upstairs and into the flat. Sam took the dog off of her lead, which appalled the detective, but the animal stayed sitting while the agent removed his jacket and hung it up. The dog sniffed the air and looked up at Sherlock.

"Let her smell you," Sam said. Sherlock grimaced but held out one hand, palm up, and the dog stood, sniffing it curiously. She smelled his trousers and his shoes as well, then seemed content that they were properly introduced.

"I could use a cuppa," Sam said. "It's chilly outside."

"Then why were you outside?" Sherlock drawled.

Sam shot him a look.

"She needs to be walked," he said. "That's what dogs do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen, waving Sam into a seat in the living room as he walked away. He made a cup for himself because he had not eaten since breakfast.

When he went back into the living room, Sam was once again sitting in John's chair and the dog was curled up on the rug at his feet. Sherlock sighed; there would be dog hairs both all over the carpet and on John's chair. It meant he would have to hoover.

Sam saw Sherlock looking at the dog and – deliberately, in Sherlock's opinion – misinterpreted his expression.

"I need to thank John," he said. "It was a good idea. She's been a good dog."

"How long have you owned her?"

"A day."

Sherlock snorted.

"Hardly enough time to develop an informed opinion."

"She was at the shelter for six weeks," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "They said the same thing."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then asked:

"Has she got a name?"

Sam's eyes dropped down to the dog and he leaned forward slightly so he could scratch her behind the ears. The dog opened her eyes sleepily, wagged her tail once or twice, then resumed her nap. Sam was silent for a long moment.

"Sort of," he admitted. "She was just abandoned at the shelter one night, so they don't know what she used to be called. Richards – the sergeant who runs the Met adoption programme – called her Jess. I'm going to change it."

"To what?" Sherlock enquired.

Sam was silent again, petting the dog's head. Then he shook his head without looking up.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't been able to figure it out yet."

Sherlock sighed inwardly.

"Does it matter what she's called?" he asked, unable to keep a slight snappish hint out of his voice. Sam looked up at him in surprise.

"Of course it does," he replied. "It's her name. Names are important. It has to suit her."

"She's a dog," Sherlock pointed out dryly. Sam shrugged one shoulder.

"It still matters," Sam said. "Names have to mean something, to fit the person – animal in her case. Imagine what you'd be like if your name was different. You might not be quite yourself if your name was something like Joe Smith. 'Joe Smith, Consulting Detective'," he added with a lopsided smile. "Doesn't exactly have the same mysterious, romantic ring does it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Leaving aside the improbability of my having a different surname than my parents, my mother did not intend for me to become a consulting detective when she named me. Especially since I'm the only one in the world. Not a common career path."

Sam's lips twitched a bit, his green eyes gleaming with a hint of humour.

"No, but it means she knew something about you. And about Mycroft. She could have named you two more traditional names and then… " Sam shrugged. "Maybe you would have been different. Names help make us who we are. What if John weren't called John?"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. John _was_ John. There was no reason to consider him being anything else. It was not a topic open to discussion.

Sam smiled slightly.

"Like I said, it makes us who we are."

Sherlock studied him carefully with narrowed eyes, sipping his tea.

"And what about you?" he asked.

Sam fell silent, glancing at the dog again, reaching down to pet her lightly. Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair slightly, letting the silence stretch out and leaving Sam to play at ignoring him for a few minutes. He did not miss the tension that had crept back into the younger man's shoulders.

"What about me?" he finally asked without looking up.

"What does your name say about you?"

"Which one?"

"You tell me," Sherlock replied simply. Sam paused, then shook his head once, only slightly. Sherlock held his tongue, waiting. He noted Sam's hand tighten on his mug then relax again with deliberate effort. His jaw was set, his shoulders curled in slightly, as if to make himself smaller or invisible.

He stood abruptly, startling his sleeping dog somewhat. Sam moved two quick paces away from the chair and stood still for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. His green eyes were bright and dark, his features were etched with reluctance.

"You changed your name when you returned here," Sherlock said in a low, level voice. "Why?"

Sam stared at him a moment, then looked away sharply. There was another pause before he answered and Sherlock could see him debating whether or not he would.

"I don't like strangers using my first name," he muttered.

"Presumably they did all of your life until you were undercover. Your mother and sister still do," Sherlock pointed out. Sam nodded, a short, jerky motion, sipping his tea as a means of distraction. Sherlock watched him but Sam's gaze slid away, focussed intently on the wall as if it contained something fascinating.

"Yes," Sam snapped. He gave his head another shake, as if to deter the coming question, but Sherlock pressed on regardless.

"Why?" he demanded.

Sam's fingers tightened on his mug even more and he sucked in a deep, silent breath, forcing his shoulders down and back as he did so, fighting the instinct to tense, to make himself seem smaller. He kept his eyes on the wall for a long moment, then looked back at Sherlock. The detective was startled by the ferocity of the gleam there, the sudden whiteness of Sam's face.

" _Gabriel_ ," Sam purred, raising the pitch of his voice slightly, softening it, adopting a near perfect Irish accent. " _Like the angel._ "


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock froze at the sound that stripped away the years and took him back to the man on the bridge, the man in the pool at midnight, laughing about the fragility of human life as John and Sam looked out at him from memory, desperation in their eyes.

Sam was staring at him hard, green eyes suddenly stark against white skin. Sherlock felt himself pale, his breath catching in his chest as if weighted down. He was locked where he was, trapped by Sam's bright gaze. The silence spread out as if expanding the distance between them, making the flat feel too large, too quiet, too cold. He forced in a deep breath, feeling his lungs constrict against the inhalation.

"Play it," Sam said suddenly, softly.

Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"What?" he hissed.

"Play it," Sam repeated, his voice hard. "The Mozart piece, Sherlock. Play it."

"I don't believe I own it," Sherlock lied. Sam narrowed his eyes, anger flashing across his features.

"I mean you play it, Sherlock. On your violin. _Don't_ tell me you can't – I know you know it. Don't lie to me, not right here, not right now. Play it."

"Sam –"

" _Sherlock._ "

"I don't think this is wise," Sherlock snapped.

"I don't care what you think," Sam retorted. "This isn't about you. I need to remember. You need to do this. I need you to do this."

Sherlock flared his nostrils.

"And if it triggers another flashback?" he demanded.

"And if it doesn't?" Sam shot back.

"What good will it do, Sam? What will it accomplish?"

"I don't know," Sam growled. "I want to find out. This happened to me, Sherlock. It's not going to go away, no matter how much I want it to. No matter how much you want it to. You were there. Do this for me." Sherlock opened his mouth to interject but Sam shook his head and beat him to it. "Please."

The detective snapped his mouth shut and shot Sam a severe glare that was returned with equal ferocity. His green eyes were brighter and there were fine lines of tension around them. Not pleading, not quite, but something bordering on desperation. Sherlock held off a moment longer before setting his tea aside with a disgruntled huff.

Sherlock pushed himself and shook his head, registering his displeasure silently this time but Sam didn't move or drop his gaze away. The detective sighed sharply and crossed the living room to crouch down in front of his violin case. He hesitated again, but not because of Sam. He had been playing more over the past month but still not as often as he used to. There were days when he would get out the new instrument from its burgundy velvet bedding but be unable to do anything more than sit with it on his lap and stare at it. At other times, he would open the case and simply gaze at the small engraved brass plaque. There had been several occasions when he could not even bring himself to pick up the case at all and he would have to go find some other means of distracting himself until the sensation passed.

He felt that reluctance now, but it was a combination of missing his mother's presence and being unable to predict how Sam would react. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised to find Sam watching him.

"Are you absolutely certain?" he asked.

Sam nodded, even though his features betrayed the fact that he was not. Sherlock waited a moment, then nodded in return, picked up the violin case, and pushed himself back to standing.

Sherlock cleaned the bow carefully and tuned the violin while keeping his focus on Sam. The younger man waited quietly at first then began to lose his patience. Sherlock kept his movements slow and methodical; he could have done this more quickly, that was true, but he was giving Sam time to change his mind.

When this didn't happen, Sherlock sighed inwardly and put the violin to his left shoulder. He ran through some scales and Sam huffed angrily, glaring at him.

"Hurry up, quit stalling," he snapped.

"I can't," Sherlock lied. Sam glared at him and flopped unceremoniously onto the couch at the other end of the room, chewing on his lower lip. Sherlock gave himself several more minutes to warm up, to re-adjust to the sensation of the new violin. It was as similar to his old one as a modern instrument could be – he knew John had paid a lot of money for it to be so. But there were still subtle differences in weight and balance that he had to relearn if he did not play it on a regular basis.

He did know the piece by heart – he'd known it long before he'd met the Interpol agent. It had been a favourite of his once, although he had played it far less since the events five years ago. Every so often, he would play it for himself. Only when he was alone, only to quiet the memories if they were restive and threatening to resurface.

He set bow to strings and adjusted his fingers on the neck but faltered after only a few bars. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet to cover the slight, hoping the action would lead Sam to believe that it was his position that had derailed him, nothing more. When he was alone, he could play it flawlessly, working his way through from beginning to end without catching himself up. But now he was not playing for himself nor was he playing to still the memories.

Sherlock readjusted the violin and closed his eyes. He shut out everything but the feel of the instrument against his shoulder, the bow in his right hand. For a moment he was weightless, there was nothing but the violin and the subtle shifts in his muscles as he prepared to play. The last five years of Sam's life and the last six months of his fell away like dissipating mist.

He began again.

It came more easily if he didn't think – this was the only time in which he could truly manage that. It was astonishing that this one piece kept the memories of his mother at bay. They had played this together several times but not once since he had come to associate the concerto with the events on the bridge. He realized with a mild flash of surprise that she had never once enquired about it when he ceased to play it with her five years ago. Had she known? Had she guessed? But how?

He re-centred himself, concentrating on his breathing rather than on the music, letting his hands follow long familiar patterns. He felt the movements more than he heard the notes and the flex and stretch of his fingers allowed him to ground himself in the present, to push back against the memories of the day that were already too much at hand.

He opened his eyes, refocusing on Sam.

The younger man was leaning forward, elbows propped on his thighs and his palms pressed together in a mockery of prayer against his nose and forehead. Sherlock could see the minute trembling in his lips matched with the same slight shudders in his hands. His eyes were closed, his cheeks streaked with iridescent trails where tears had traced their way from his eyes to his jaw. As Sherlock watched, another tear outlined his left thumb and then caught on his lips. Sam pursed his lips and it was gone.

He hesitated at the end of a bar, noting the tremor that coursed down Sam's spine. The younger man opened his eyes, vivid green made even brighter with unshed tears.

"Don't you dare," Sam said, his voice hard-edged, fragile. "Don't you _dare_."

Sherlock gave him a glare but kept going. Sam returned the look until he was satisfied that Sherlock was not going to stop. And when the music started playing again he bowed his head and his shoulders, curling in on himself. Sherlock could see he was attempting to quell his shaking. His breathing was somewhat ragged, causing little hitches in the movements of his shoulders and back as he inhaled.

Sherlock kept playing, fighting the reluctance and the desire to stop. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, raking his fingers into his hair so he could lace them together on the back of his head. His shoulders shook harder and he tilted his head back as much as he could without moving his hands, looking at the ceiling, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. He inhaled a deep, unsteady breath, then curled in on himself again, shaking his head.

Sherlock stopped abruptly when he heard a harsh sob escape Sam's lips.

"Don't –" Sam managed.

"Enough," Sherlock snapped in reply.

" _No –_ "

" _Enough_ , Sam!" Sherlock shot back. "Enough!" He stood still, waiting for more protests. Sam shook his head, unable to manage any words. Sherlock stayed focussed on him, trying to level his own breathing, to keep his heartbeat steady. He put his violin away quickly, shutting the locks with a definitive snap.

The sudden silence following the clicks was broken by another jagged sob. Sherlock wished John were there – he had no idea what to do. He stood beside his chair, locked in a rare moment of uncertainty, then made himself cross the room and sit down on the couch next to Sam. Impossible to tell if Sam was even aware that he was there – there was no shift in his posture, no acknowledging movement. Sherlock held himself very still, completely at a loss. He thought about texting John for advice, but his phone was on the other side of the room and he didn't think he should get up.

He caught his lower lip between his teeth, then made a decision. Very carefully, he put a hand on Sam's back, lightly, only to alert him to his presence. Then he simply sat in silence, hoping his company was sufficient, and let Sam cry.

* * *

Sam awoke to a small, focused point of coldness pressing against his right hand. He blinked and half sat up before he was fully awake. He fought a dizzying sense of disorientation as his mind tried to right itself, figure out where he was, what time it was, and what the cold sensation on his hand was all at the same time. He held his breath and then realized his dog was nudging his hand gently, looking at him expectantly. He met her bright brown eyes then looked away, his gaze roaming over patterned wallpaper and high, moulded ceilings. He felt someone watching him and turned his head to see Sherlock sitting in John's chair, regarding him almost thoughtfully.

_Oh,_ he thought in dull surprise, then realized the lighting had changed significantly. He could see weak grey light through the living room windows but it wasn't filtering into the flat. Sam frowned and sat up fully, automatically reaching to pet his dog's head. She sat down, pressed up against the couch, watching him contentedly.

He turned toward the kitchen when he heard a faint noise and a moment later, John came out, carrying a mug.

"Coffee?" he asked, lifting the mug ever so slightly. Sam swallowed, suddenly aware that his mouth was very dry. He nodded and John crossed the room, handing him the hot drink carefully.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked.

Sam tried to evaluate that. Part of him felt exhausted, but not in the same way as he had been recently. He frowned slightly, looking at his coffee, feeling the dog rest her chin on his knee.

"All right, I think," he replied, a bit surprised to realize it was true. "What time is it?"

He looked back up to John's small smile.

"Almost seven in the morning," the doctor replied.

Sam felt a flash of shock and braced his mug with his free hand to keep from dropping it.

"What?" he demanded, panic flaring through him. He realized that meant he hadn't made it home the day before and that he'd slept through the night without his sleeping medication. He tried to remember if he'd had any nightmares but could not.

John's smile grew.

"It's all right, Sandra knows where you are. I rang her last night. And Jess has been fed."

Sam nodded mechanically, glancing back at Sherlock, who was still watching him with that level, grey eyed gaze. He couldn't remember having fallen asleep on the sofa. He could remember Sherlock playing the Mozart piece for him and everything else it had brought back – all the detail of memory that he'd been missing before. He exhaled unsteadily, looking down at his coffee again, taking a sip to cover the shakiness he felt. The memories were starker, more distinct, but somehow more under control, as if being defined had stripped them of most of their power.

He wondered why that was and if it would last. He didn't feel numb as he had the first few days after the flashback. It took a minute to identify the sensation.

He actually felt almost okay.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"Yes," Sam replied.

John grinned and threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Sherlock will make breakfast."

At this, Sherlock's cool expression vanished and he gave an irate sigh, rolling his eyes.

"I do not cook on demand," he snapped and Sam felt his lips twitch at all of the misplaced affronted dignity in Sherlock's voice.

"You almost always make me breakfast," John replied easily. "Just make enough for one more."

"Yes, I make _you_ breakfast," Sherlock replied. "This is not some sort of commercial enterprise."

The smile on John's face told Sam that Sherlock was not really upset, only being difficult because he could. John shrugged, looking pleasantly unconcerned.

"You've made breakfast for Josephine before and even Tricia once or twice."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply then scowled before pressing his lips together. Sam could see he was looking for a way out but couldn't find one.

"Very well," he sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "But I do not take requests, nor do I make special meals."

"I'm not a picky eater," Sam replied with a slight smile. He sipped his coffee again, feeling the hot liquid warm his body and relax his muscles. He felt more himself than he had in two weeks.

"Try not to set the frying pan on fire today," John said to Sherlock's retreating form. There was a slightly muffled reply from the kitchen and John chuckled. Sam smiled at the easy, loving teasing. He relaxed back against the couch, scratching his dog's head and enjoying the sensation of not feeling awful.

After breakfast – which was surprisingly good – Sam took John up on his offer to use the shower and emerged feeling even more human. He was amazed what simply being clean and fed could do – but it was more than just that. Something about listening to the music that had been playing on the bridge had changed things. He'd been afraid it would be a trigger and cause another flashback. It had opened a flood of memories but he'd stayed in the present, in Sherlock's flat, through all of them.

He called Sandra to let her know he was taking the dog for a walk before coming home, then thanked John and Sherlock. He thought he detected a flash of relief on Sherlock's face; Sam didn't think it was because he was leaving but rather because the detective suspected they would not have to have the same fraught conversations anymore.

Sam gave him a slight nod and saw it acknowledged in Sherlock's eyes. It wouldn't be the last time they spoke of it, he knew, but he didn't think it would be as bad ever again. He felt like something had been laid to rest between them and that sensation alone was enough of a relief to leaving him feeling light. He hadn't realized how much had been there, unspoken, unacknowledged, but not unknown.

He walked for nearly an hour, this time aware of where he was headed. When they came to the Waterloo Bridge, Sam stopped and simply looked at it for a long moment, watched the pedestrians and vehicles cross it, all of them unconcerned about being there. The dog stood beside him patiently for a few minutes, then nudged his leg. He smiled down at her and kept going until they'd reached the spot that Sherlock had identified for him three years ago. Sam looped the lead around his wrist and leaned against the parapet, looking out over the river. He'd done this three years ago, too, but then it had been with more curiosity and disbelief. Now he let himself see past that and admired the view, the slow slide of grey water beneath him, the quicker glide of boats etching across its surface, the landmarks rising sharply in the distance.

He thought of everything that had happened since the day he'd pitched into the freezing water below – all of it, the good, the bad, the astonishing, the mundane. He saw the traffic moving smoothly. He could remember the abandoned cars and the bus full of terrified tourists, but they faded against the background of vehicles rolling past. He tried to imagine a snarl of traffic on either side of the river. And a woman on a bus, on her way to work, wondering what the delay was.

Sam looked back out over the river and smiled. He remembered Sandra the first time he'd met her at St. Mary's, in her scrubs, her blond hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. He remembered how she'd smiled at him, a certain light in her blue eyes. He'd seen that so many times over the past three years that he had almost become used to it. He thought maybe he shouldn't, maybe he should remember to appreciate it each time he saw it.

Moriarty would never really be gone. His body had tumbled into the water and then been pulled out. He had been cremated at the expense of the taxpayers, without fuss, without ceremony. Sam knew it would never leave him. Not completely. And it would be bad again – just hopefully not as bad as it had just been. He thought perhaps he'd passed through the worst of it and that gave him hope. He knew how he felt now wouldn't last, not entirely, not so soon. But he felt like himself for the first time in two weeks. He felt like he could see a way out and hoped he'd remember it when things felt dark again.

He was alive. Moriarty was long dead. What he'd done would never fully be erased. Not for Sam, not for countless other people that Interpol could not identify. They were all out there and he was their ghost. But that was all he was. A ghost, an unpleasant memory on a cool breeze that smelt of the Thames.

Sandra, Veronique, Sherlock, John, Marian, Lestrade – they were real. They were here, each demanding his attention, each offering their unique friendship in return. Sam had often wondered what his life would be like if all of the events on that day had not happened.

He'd asked Marian if maybe Gabriel was dead, but if those things hadn't happened, Sam Mitchell as he was now would not exist. A week ago, he would have embraced that idea and longed for it. Now he wasn't so sure. He pictured Sandra again, checking Sherlock's concussion, smiling across the gurney at him.

If he didn't have that, he knew his life would be all the poorer for it. The thought of her made him smile again and he glanced down at his dog. She cocked her head at him, as if considering his thoughts on the subject, and Sam grinned. She wagged her tail when he smiled at her and stood up, eager to get moving again.

"Come on, Mozart," he said. "Let's go home."


End file.
